


fly and find the new green bough

by imperiousheiress



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: (also crowley), Anal Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Humor, Insecure Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Nightmares, Pillow Principality Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Pre-Relationship, Self-Hatred, Snake Crowley (Good Omens), Supportive Aziraphale (Good Omens), They both have dicks, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens), Virgin Crowley (Good Omens), a forest of pine trees, crowley has an std (snake transformation disorder), lots of fluff i promise, sneasearch (snake research)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:55:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22595137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imperiousheiress/pseuds/imperiousheiress
Summary: The Serpent of Eden,cursed to crawl on his belly.A sudden, accidental transformation into his snake form leaves Crowley haunted. He fears what Aziraphale seeing the more monstrous side of him could do to their relationship. Fears forsaking any trace of humanity he’s acquired over six millenia and giving over to the nature of the form that was inflicted upon him.Fortunately, Aziraphale won't let Crowley wallow in his inner turmoil all on his own. He has a plan. (Yes, ofcoursethat plan involves books.) And he's going to do everything in his power to help him overcome his fears. To become comfortable in his own scales. And to learn to love every part of himself. (As well as be loved in return.)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 57
Kudos: 371
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a long (and at times, arduous) road to get here, but I am thrilled to be able to share this labor of love with the world! I've got a lot of gratitude to show, so let me roll them out!!:
> 
> Thank you to the mods with the Good Omens Big Bang for putting this all together as well as continuing to wrangle us. (Thanks especially to [Ximeria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ximeria) who showed me a lot of much needed and much appreciated support during the twilight hours of this event.)
> 
> Many thanks of _course_ to my lovely artist, [Eriathalia](https://eriathalia.tumblr.com/), who both brought an exceptional amount of life and love to this story. I am eternally grateful for your work!! Please go check her out, she's done exceptional things -- both for other authors in the Bang and beyond!!  
> EDIT: Thanks as well to [Mulasawala](https://mulasawala.tumblr.com/) for the second, equally wonderful piece of art!! 
> 
> Thanks also to my beta, [tomatopudding](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatopudding), for keeping me from embarrassing myself (more than I'd already planned to, anyway!) and for all of the incredibly lovely comments. You really helped me put the icing on the cake.
> 
> Finally, last but certainly not least, thank you to [curtaincall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/curtaincall), [DiminishedReturns](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DiminishingReturns), and [mutalune](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutalune). Meeting you all was by _far_ the most important thing that happened to me through this event. I could not have done any of this without all of you. Even after this, I look forward to decades of friendship to come. (Yes, decades, because I'm not letting you get rid of me that easily!) I can't wait to see what kind of adventures we find next.
> 
> (And please go read _all_ of their Bang fics as well!! They are so incredibly talented and I am so lucky to have had their endless support and to be able to count myself among their peers.)
> 
> Now, without further parentheticals, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy! ♡♡♡

Crowley slinks down from the flat above the bookshop, still half-groggy with the remnants of sleep. His feet find the placement of the descending stairsteps with ease the same way they have on an uncountable number of days across the last few months. Ever since the end of the final days and the beginning of the rest of the world.

Beethoven is spinning on the record player. Unexpected, but a nice change of pace. It’s been mostly  _ Vivaldi _ for the last few days. Not that he can complain; there's no one to blame for that besides himself.

Warmth gathers in his chest as he recalls the snippets of his conversation from last Friday night. Remembers getting overzealous about the second movement of Beethoven’s _Symphony No. 9 in D Minor_ after downing one too many glasses of Bordeaux. (“Molto vivace!” he remembers shouting with a fist in the air.) He’d been sprawled across the sofa, legs hanging off the armrest, just the tips of his hair brushing up against Aziraphale’s thigh where he’d been sitting, tucked into the opposite corner of the sofa. He’d giggled into his glass as Crowley had carried on, lips pressed tight together, humming a raucous and not altogether accurate rendition of the violin melody.

A rendition that had, apparently, been just good (or perhaps terrible) enough to get stuck in Aziraphale’s head. Now, Crowley unthinkingly hums along, more in tune this time, on account of having the music in the background to guide him. He sways into the kitchenette at the back of the shop, not stopping even when he sees Aziraphale leaned against the counter with his favorite winged ivory mug clutched in both hands.

He smiles and shakes his head as Crowley saunters over, scooping up a second mug from the counter next to him. It’s already full, steaming with coffee that couldn’t be less than fresh even if it wanted to. Crowley knows Aziraphale made it just for him.  _ (Actually _ made it. Went through the whole process with his own two hands. Pouring the water, measuring out the grounds,  _ everything. _ The ridiculous angel.)

“Good morning, my dear boy,” Aziraphale hums.

Crowley drowns his too-warm grin in a long sip of coffee and circles Aziraphale in order to hop himself up on the countertop beside him.

“Angel,” he says, now openly letting his lips twitch up in the face of the disapproving turn to Aziraphale’s mouth.

“Sleep well?”

“You know that bed of yours is a  _ nightmare,” _ Crowley grumbles. There’s no real ire behind it.

“You  _ could _ sleep in your own bed. At your own flat.”

Aziraphale sips pointedly at his tea – it’s always tea. Even if he couldn't see it from his current vantage point, Crowley would still know. Because this is  _ Aziraphale,  _ who loves his routine nearly as much as his books.

“Nah,” Crowley says, quickly turning his face away. He hardly wears his sunglasses anymore. Not here. (And  _ here _ is usually exactly where he is.) It's taken some getting used to – the raw feeling of exposure that comes with it. “Your coffee maker is better.”

Had he been paying attention to anything other than the rhythm of his rabbit-foot heart, he might have noticed the way Aziraphale melts against the counter edge with a sigh.

Aziraphale opens the shop at about 10:45. He only decides he’s actually going to do so about five minutes before that. Some days, he doesn’t think of it at all. Others, he just decides against it. Today, however, is Wednesday, which means the always bleary-eyed and still excitable uni student that Aziraphale has come to be rather fond of will finish with classes early today. (She usually comes in for about an hour, sometimes apologizing for not being able to buy anything – which _always_ leaves Aziraphale beaming. He tends to send her off with a little bit of extra good fortune, a touch of renewed energy, and a number of well-wishes. She’s in her final semester, so she needs every little miracle she can get.)

He makes no announcement. Just stands from his armchair with a thoughtful hum and puts a tasseled bookmark between the pages of his current leather-bound volume. He sets it aside with careful hands. Crowley barely pays attention from where he’s sprawled out in his own armchair. ( _ His _ , because it’s the same he always sits in.) From an outside perspective, the contortion of his limbs may look only questionably comfortable, but he is perfectly content. He has a book – albeit one that is closed and in his lap – but his mind is not entirely present.

That is, not until Aziraphale crosses to the front of the shop. The first blind he opens casts a triangle of warm sunlight against Crowley’s forearm, and he blinks at it for a moment with drooping eyes, neurons not connecting. And then, Aziraphale continues his clockwise circling path and the second open blind illuminates the shop tenfold. Crowley sits up straighter into the new brightness and turns his head a handful of degrees to watch him work.

“Opening up shop?” he asks with a voice slow and smooth as molasses and just as heavy against his tongue. His eyes follow the graceful curving path of Aziraphale’s hands with blurry focus. He forgets, for a moment, about blinking.

Aziraphale hums his assent. A note that’s strangely harmonic beside the floating tunes of Handel. (It’s Handel now.  _ Harpsichord Suite No. 5 in E Major. _ Beethoven had finished just over an hour ago and the record had switched to this without any outside help whatsoever. It’s a pleasant surprise, although Crowley’s not sure what inspired it. Nonetheless, he’s not about to complain.) Aziraphale continues his circular journey around the room. Following a rhythm of his own design – a familiar, methodical beat that Crowley has become increasingly accustomed to. He still wonders at that. At the impossibility of them even being here at all, never mind being here  _ like this _ . After Aziraphale finally unlocks the door and flips the sign, he turns around just to catch Crowley’s eye. He offers him a small, curious smile that Crowley can’t bear to look at for too long. So, he plucks his sunglasses from the inner pocket of his jacket and slips them on in order to dim the world to a bearable brilliance.

It must be slightly before noon when the bell above the door chimes daintily as it swings open. Crowley doesn’t notice. He’s got his nose stuck deep in his book. Almost literally. He’s practically laying flat; the only part of his body still in the seat of his chair is his back. The book is clutched tightly in both hands, inches away from his face as he squints at the words on the pages. 

Aziraphale stirs slowly from his own seat, putting his own reading down with obvious reluctance. His huff draws Crowley's glance just in time to catch the end of a tell-tale grimace, which quickly shifts when he plasters on a more neutral expression that doesn't entirely hide his displeasure and gets up to relocate to the desk.

Crowley snorts quietly to himself, just low enough to avoid the angel’s notice – or so he hopes. It is a ceaseless font of amusement for him that Aziraphale chose to open a book _ shop _ in order to store all of his precious collection and not, say, a  _ library _ instead. The whole business is really more consternation than it’s worth. But it wouldn’t take six thousand years of knowing Aziraphale to know that there are some things on which he absolutely cannot be swayed. No matter how many times Crowley tries to bring up the illogic of it all.

Ah, well. He’s got better things to do than mentally rehash an ages-old argument. This book is getting  _ quite _ interesting. 

He’s staring wide-eyed at the pages that he has been turning with increasing haste over the last handful of minutes – this little girl just moved a glass of water  _ with her mind _ – when he hears Aziraphale’s voice.

“Crowley.” It’s no more than a murmur, a vocal tap on the shoulder. 

Crowley grumbles a half-attentive string of syllables in response to indicate that he had heard, but makes no further attempt to respond. It’s the exact same thing Aziraphale has done to him a hundred dozen times over, when he’s had his nose stuck deep in the ink of a book and doesn’t want to be interrupted. 

_ “Crowley,” _ Aziraphale hisses a second time.

With an exaggerated huff, Crowley stops to look up. (Oh,  _ who _ has he become? Some demon he is. Huffy about having to put down a  _ book _ . It’s this bookshop, the  _ blessed _ place, it must be. The ink of words and the paperdust of yellowing pages seeping through his skin by proximity.) He freezes a second later.

It might be the last thing he’d expected to see. Aziraphale is standing board-stiff behind the long front desk, white knuckles only barely more pale than the hands they’re attached to – hands that are in fists atop the dark maple desktop – eyes blown wide and usually soft mouth set into a hard line. 

Crowley sits up, slamming his book closed with a vigor that’s just this side of too much and yet not nearly as dramatic as seems appropriate, since the paperback cover doesn’t allow for a very satisfying  _ clack. _ Even so, Aziraphale’s expression doesn’t change. He doesn’t offer any words of disapproval. His eyebrows don’t even twitch.

_ That’s _ the most worrying thing of all.

Irrationally, Crowley jumps when Aziraphale moves. It’s a sudden, jerky bout of limbs that has him going from a standstill to a march in negative time. In a second, he’s crossed the length of the room necessary to stand at Crowley’s side and his fingers are fluttering against his elbow.

“What? Angel, what is it?” Crowley asks, not bothering to hide the feeling firecrackering violently up between his lungs with his usual hushed words or forced smiles.

“Come on,” Aziraphale says, which doesn’t offer him any reassurance whatsoever, grip around his arm tightening enough to bruise. “Up,  _ up. _ Crowley, there’s-”

He doesn’t get to finish. He doesn’t  _ have _ to. Because Crowley isn’t that slow to put two and two together and he’s already glancing towards the door.

_ “Oh.” _

Standing there, a monochromatic picture in black and white with silvering dark hair, is a man who has stopped to leaf through the pages of the thick book he holds in one hand. Not just a man. A  _ priest _ . 

Crowley who had, up until that very second, been allowing Aziraphale to tug him up and along, stops. The proverbial immovable object against his unstoppable force. They come to a standstill despite all of Aziraphale’s efforts to dislodge his arm from its socket. 

“Angel,” Crowley says. He uses the anchor of Aziraphale’s hold against him, utilizing it to swing himself in close so they’re face to face. Something that clearly frustrates him, if the tightness of his expression is anything to go by. “Hey.  _ Hey. _ ”

“Crowley!” he huffs. “Don’t-”

_ “Aziraphale.”  _ And that stops him. Crowley’s voice is gentle when he continues. “I appreciate your concern, but I think I can be in the same room as a priest without burning up.”

“That’s not-”

“Excuse me?”

Aziraphale drops his hand from Crowley’s arm like he’s a thing on fire. Not as quick, Crowley only takes a step back after Aziraphale already has. He presses the sting of rejection deep down into his gut, trying not to feel the way it prickles at his skin as Aziraphale quickly turns his head.

“Oh. Yes. Of course. What can I help you with?”

“Sorry for the bother. I was just wondering, is this…?”

Crowley tunes out the timbre of the priest's voice. He’s just about to spin around to return to lounging on his chair when his eye catches on what he hadn’t previously seen. Breaking up the monotonous black of robes is a small mahogany shoulderbag that hangs against his hip, attached to a long strap that’s hooked over one shoulder. And there, peeking out just from the corner of the unclosed flap, is the dull metal cap of a glass bottle.

Not just any bottle. A vaguely cylindrical bottle decorated with a  _ Madonna  _ in the form of a metal relief and filled nearly to the top with crystal clear liquid.

_ Holy water _ .

Crowley inhales sharply. He doesn't know if Aziraphale hears him or it’s just coincidence, but he glances over his shoulder after the priest turns and starts to wander towards the other side of the room. Whatever he sees written across Crowley’s numb face, he softens, shoulders drooping.

“It’s fine,” Crowley says quickly. Even he can hear the tremble in his voice.

“My dear-”

Crowley’s shrug is stiff, his smirk even moreso.

_ “Come on. _ What’s the worst that could happen?” he says. “It’s in a bottle. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh.” The corner of Aziraphale’s mouth twitches up in a semblance of a smile that carries no humor. “You saw, then.” He chews momentarily at his lip and Crowley’s eyes trace the movement. “Perhaps just… keep your distance?”

It’s more plea than suggestion and Crowley finds himself nodding along before he can think about it.

“Alright,” he says, and, even to his own ears, it sounds like a promise. 

Aziraphale relaxes only marginally. His second attempt at a smile is a little bit more genuine. For a stretching second, neither of them says or does anything. They just stare. And then, Aziraphale nods and turns around to follow the priest back around the half-wall of a bookshelf.

Crowley waits until he’s gone to force breath through his lungs. It comes in a loud, sharp gasp, tearing its way violently down his windpipe with a force like knives. For a moment, he is struck with the fear that Aziraphale heard it or even, somehow,  _ felt _ it, and he freezes, waiting for him to come flying back around the corner and catch Crowley red-handed. It doesn’t happen, though, so he lets himself continue to breathe. Slow and steady. In and out. Just like he has been doing with seldom-interrupted regularity for six millenia.

He grabs the book he’d been working through from where it had gotten tossed haphazardly into the seat of his chair. With a flick of his hand, a corner of the back cover that had been bent to an awkward angle rights itself once more. His fingers twist and flutter as he turns it over and ruffles through the pages. He doesn’t open it. 

For a moment, he considers doing as Aziraphale had asked. It would be easy. He wouldn’t even have to walk out the door. Could just wander back upstairs or into Aziraphale’s office. Curl back up under piles of quilts atop the slightly too stiff queen-sized bed, or sit at the chair in front of the computer and pretend it’s a well-functioning thing that he actually has the capability to work.

If he concentrates – concentrates  _ hard. _ Closes his eyes and quiets the thrumming of his own pulse in his eardrums – he can feel it. The hint of holy essence. Nothing more than a tickle against the vertebrae just below his neck. Barely there and almost impossible to find in the shadow of the much brighter presence hovering in between. A match flame behind the searing brilliance of an arsonist’s forest fire.

He taps the spine of the book against his palm. And then, he takes a seat in the office chair behind the front desk, swinging his feet up so his bootheels thump against the wood.

As far as demons go, Crowley has an above average penchant for imagination. Perhaps it is this that makes him able to tune out all goings-on around him as he pleases. If he tries hard enough to  _ not _ think about a problem, he finds that it tends to go away. That is exactly the tactic he is employing in this situation. (It tends to be the tactic he defaults to in any situation, with running away coming in at an incredibly close second.)

It works, for the most part. It works, at least, until fifteen or so minutes later, when he hears the soft clearing of a throat, so close and persistent – is that the third or  _ fourth _ time? – that it’s impossible to ignore. He looks up with a huff from the book that he hadn’t been concentrating on anyway. 

The high-pitched squawk that strangles out of his throat hopefully isn’t as loud as he thinks it is.

The bloody  _ priest _ is standing just on the other side of the desk, close enough that Crowley could reach out and strangle him. And, judging by the grimace folded into the lines of his face, Crowley’s screech might have actually been  _ louder _ than he’d first thought. Or maybe that’s more of a result of the flailing way he slams his book closed and very nearly loses his grip on it.

Either way, the man’s expression slowly contorts into something less pained until his brow is furrowing at Crowley from behind squat, rectangular bifocals.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to have startled you,” he says. “Are you quite alright?”

It’s all Crowley can do to nod mutely, all too aware of the knot that has constricted around his vocal folds.

“I hate to be a bother, but I was just wondering about this.” He holds up a thick volume clearly branded with a cross and it takes Crowley only a second of squinting scrutiny to recognize it. “It’s quite old and yet still somehow in  _ incredible _ condition. What’s something like this worth?”

“Oh,” Crowley says, with a dawning realization that spears something deep in his gut. 

What  _ this _ is is one of Aziraphale’s misprinted bibles. Specifically, if Crowley remembers correctly, the one Aziraphale snuck a couple of additions into himself, including the  _ smallest _ reference to a demon that had chased down a unicorn in front of Noah’s ark. (When Aziraphale had admitted to that one, Crowley’s initial reaction had been to gawk at him before bursting out into a peal of roaring laughter. Even drunk, he’d been able to see Aziraphale’s surprise and, more importantly, how it had given way to a smile.) 

He splutters, waving a rapidfire hand along with his wordless string of stuttering syllables. “Oh,  _ no. _ No, you don’t want  _ that. _ It’s misprinted. Absolute rubbish.”

It’s only partly a lie.

“Oh,” the man says, turning the book over with curious hands. Crowley’s eyes never leave its cover. “Well. Hmm. I suppose that’s not a problem,  _ really. _ It adds character.”

Crowley squeaks, scrambling to put his own book down, and swings his feet to rest on the ground. If it comes down to it, he supposes he can wrest the book physically from the man’s hands. Where in the  _ world _ is Aziraphale, anyway? How did this guy get his hands on  _ that _ in the first place?

He’s just about to pull some other excuse out of his bag of numerous tricks when the man speaks up again. “But perhaps, if there’s another similar edition, with less errors…”

“Yes!” Crowley says before he can really think through the potential consequences. Any spidersilk thread he can latch onto to pull himself out of this mess. He springs to his feet. “Here. There are more, er  _ religious texts _ and whatnot over this way. Come on, then.”

He skirts around the edge of the desk and the priest beams at him.

“Oh, thank you,” he says, far too emphatic for someone going to look at  _ books _ .  _ Bibles _ , even. “You’re a saint.”

Crowley can’t stop the snort that punches out of him. (Oh, if  _ only _ he knew.)

“Here, just come around this way, and-”

He rounds the corner, leading the way to the opposite side of the shop from where Aziraphale had originally taken the priest. He hardly even needs to look where he’s going. He knows nearly every text on these shelves by heart. The titles and locations of them, at least. Some covers and authors too. As well he  _ should; _ most have been here since this building first opened its doors.

He’s thinking about how to get out of this with everyone’s dignity intact (and all books in their proper places) more than the one-two march of his feet. After all, he doesn’t really have to watch where he’s going to know how to get around. He doesn’t even consider that the man he’s leading, in comparison, is going ahead blind.

Crowley sees it coming before it happens. The priest walks forward, still holding Aziraphale's precious Bible. Still looking intently at the cover. Still glancing at Crowley. He doesn't notice the neatly stacked tower of books in the immediate path of his feet. Crowley's throat opens around the warning, but he already knows it's too late. His eyes drop to the sparkling crystal glass of the bottle that's still hanging precariously out of the unclosed satchel.

The man's toe catches the corner of the book stack. He tilts violently forward, almost millisecond by millisecond instead of in one continuously steady-moving stream of time.

Crowley goes for the book.

The bottle falls.

  
  
  


The grass is his favorite part.

It’s softer than he’d imagined it would be. Seeing it from a distance had been one thing, with its mirage of verdant hues, the way it shifts and  _ breathes _ with the breeze. Touching it, however, had been another matter entirely. From the moment he had first moved against it, it had given beneath him, melding to his touch. It brushes along his scales with gentle fingers. Like a blanket of cool velour. He opens his mouth to taste the scent of it.

_ Get up there and make some trouble. _

That’s what they’d told him. That’s what he’s good at. And for the last six days, he’s had a front row seat, biding his time. Waiting for the perfect time to strike. 

Feeling the grass against his scales.

It’s perfect. There’s not a single flaw in the whole of the Garden. Of course there isn’t; She made it for  _ them. _ He can’t bring himself to hold it against them. How could he? He’s had little else to do here in the last six days besides take it all in and watch them. Take them in with the same kind of wonder which they have directed at every part of the world made just for them. Over and  _ over _ again. 

Once upon a time, he might have been able to do that same thing. To look at the sun in the sky and appreciate it for its artistry. To see it as its own tile in the mosaic of the cosmos and not just a white-hot ball of scorched dust and gas, burning its way from heaven to Eden.

That’s what they’re calling it up there, apparently. (He’s not sure it’ll catch on.)

The slits of his pupils center on the Tree. The one called woman, this  _ Eve –  _ she’s passing it by, and Crowley doesn’t miss it. How, just like every time before, she gives the fruit a second look. 

_ Eden _ .

He is its serpent. And he’s going to  _ make some trouble. _

  
  
  


“Crowley?”

The voice is little more than a distant hum, cutting into the ringing static that bounces between his ears, and he clings to the sound of it. The world is dark, so  _ dark _ , but that  _ voice _ . It’s a note of warmth, a pinprick spark of light. Crowley shifts and feels every muscle in his body coil. 

“Crowley, dearest, come now. You can come out now. It’s all been taken care of. Oh, where have you gotten to?”

_ Aziraphale _ . The voice is close. His angel can’t be far off. The note of panic in his voice is so clear. And Crowley is here, he’s  _ right here _ . But Aziraphale doesn’t see him, and he doesn’t see  _ anything–  _

The tension in his body releases as he tries to turn his head and, suddenly, the blackness melts out around him, giving way at first to a single spot of luminescence and the vague shapes of colors and then,  _ finally _ , a familiar view of the bookshop.

Or, well, not entirely familiar. It seems that his current vantage point is, in fact, level with the bottom shelves. That’s not right.

It's only then that he notices the weight of something large draped heavily over his body. He turns to see a book –  _ the _ book in fact – on the ground just inches from his face. That's what was blocking his vision, then. It must be at least the size of his head (it shouldn't be) and he blinks at it (except he doesn't) and  _ that's _ when he catches sight of the answer to his confusion. 

Staring back at him, glinting midnight silver under the warm overhead lights, is the picture-vivid image of black scales. Scales that move when he moves.  _ His _ scales. Attached to  _ his _ tail.

His fast-trembling heart drops somewhere down near his spurs. He tries to drag himself away and ends up writhing, flipping his too-long, too-sinuous form belly up and then back again, feeling the frantic way that his breath squeezes past his needle teeth.

“Crowley? Is that you?”

_ Aziraphale _ . Right. He’s still here. And getting closer,  _ impossibly _ so.  _ No _ . He can’t see this. This monstrous visage. This too-small body that is nothing but a cracked and splintered image of him, one that contains nothing of his true self. 

He thrashes, cursing the weight of the book that lies over his middle, the priest, the Almighty Herself, and tries to remember the shapes of human limbs. What even  _ is _ the purpose of toes? How do hands appear from an outside view?

For a moment, his inner eye is full of only pitch darkness. He tries to imagine looking at himself in a mirror and sees nothing reflected back. And then, before that deep-coiled tightness can overcome him entirely and choke all ability for air from his lungs, he remembers.

His shape. Of course. How could he forget? Six thousand-odd years he’s spent as a man-shaped being. (Sometimes woman-shaped. Sometimes a shape that’s somewhere in between.) He’d crafted it himself, so long ago that he can’t remember doing it. In another place (Another life.) It’s served him well, allowed him so many experiences. At times, he’s even liked it.

He considers the texture of skin, the hard structure provided by bone, the flexibility of joints and the elasticity of muscle.

And then, he blinks. He blinks because he can. Properly, this time – and then he does it again.

In the span of a short moment, he takes stock of his body, with its  _ limbs _ and  _ hair _ . Limbs are truly,  _ truly _ wonderful things. He’s never taking them for granted again.

He’s still on the floor, legs sprawled helter-skelter out in front of him. His arms are wrapped around the book, holding it tightly to his chest. With a shaky sigh, he tilts his head back on a rubbery neck. The back of his skull thunks hard against the bookshelf at his back, but he barely feels it. Everything is numb, from his ears to his fingertips.

But  _ oh _ . He  _ has _ ears and fingertips. And that isn’t something he’s never thought he’d be so happy about.

_ “Crowley!” _

He jumps, his whole body reacting to the familiarity of the voice with a shuddering jolt. He cranes his neck, which is unusually sore, to look up at where Aziraphale has appeared next to him. He doesn’t have to exert himself for long, though, because a moment later, Aziraphale lowers himself to Crowley’s level, knees finding the dusty floor as he kneels. One hand extends and hovers. Close but not making contact. Not quite. His fingers twitch against empty air.

“Crowley,” he repeats. It’s clearer, this time. Not so much like water sloshing between Crowley’s ears.  _ “Oh, _ my dear. Are you alright? Were you hurt at all? Crowley, say  _ something! _ Please.”

Whatever’s holding Aziraphale back, the invisible shield between them, it crumbles at the same rate as his expression, and he closes the scant distance. His fingers stretch outwards to curl around the outside of Crowley’s upper arm. It’s gentle but solid. And it’s the spark that he needs to kick his vocal folds back into function.

_ “Fine. _ It’s fine,” he rasps, wincing at the underlying sound. The  _ hiss _ of it. His voice crackles in his throat like it’s brand new. Something he still doesn’t know how to use. (Something he nearly forgot.) 

“You’re sure?” Aziraphale asks, low and soft. 

He sounds just about as unsteady as Crowley feels, but the weight of his hand is tangible. Grounding. His eyes, glistening pools (ridiculous) flicker down to the thick leather-bound volume that is still clutched to Crowley’s chest like a life preserver. The line of his mouth tightens and twists in a way that drops Crowley’s gut.

Tight muscles unwind – they’re working slower than is standard, but his body still feels  _ cold, _ stiff, disjointed – until he’s holding the book in one hand instead, a silent offering. But Aziraphale isn’t looking at it. His gaze is fixed steadily on Crowley’s face. A close kind of scrutiny that makes crimson sear up the back of his neck.

“Oh, you  _ foolish _ demon,” Aziraphale says with a quiet vehemence that shines through even the airy quality of the words. He  _ does _ take the book then, staring down at the dark wine cover and stroking delicate fingertips across the gold edging. “You’re so– so  _ stubborn. _ Next time some  _ stupid _ idiot goes spilling holy water all over the place, you leave the books and focus on saving yourself instead. Alright?”

_ “Next _ time?”

The joke falls flat, more of a wheeze than his usual huff of amusement, and he’s pretty sure both eyebrows have climbed high on his forehead instead of just the one so that his expression is more stupefied than sly. Aziraphale chuckles anyway, even if it doesn’t quite ring with its usual humor.

With a heavy sigh, he tucks the book under his arm like it’s a second thought and raises to a stand.

“Come on, then. Shall we get off the floor? Maybe get some tea. I think I’m going to close up for the rest of the day.” 

Crowley hesitates. Part of him can still feel the sharp-edged twitch of scales pushing just beneath his skin, trying to bubble back up to the surface. He scratches absently at his forearms. 

"I can't," he says, and the words feel like they're coming from somewhere outside him. How, after all, could they possibly be getting through his boulder-clogged windpipe? Overcoming the tight-wound sickness lodged in his chest and creeping up, up,  _ up. _

Aziraphale's head turns and the dappled sunlight drops through the windows at just the right angle as to catch the tips of his feather-soft hair in a brilliant halo. To light his clear, sky-reflection eyes with a luster like blue flame. Eyes that are wide blown and staring hard and direct at Crowley.

"Sorry?" he says, the quiet squeak of his voice the only sound in the still air between them. The thin smile pulling at his face is tense.

Crowley struggles to stand on boneless legs. They're too short, too separate, a restriction against the liquid movement his body so craves. 

"I can't," he repeats through gritted teeth and a wobbling throat, trying to hold his balance. His uncoordinated fingers grasp at the sturdy edge of the bookshelf behind him. "I'm– I need to leave."

He pushes himself off of the bookshelf and stands on his own two rubber hose legs, feet a solid, clunky weight beneath him. But still he stands, unsupported, and he thinks, unbidden,  _ “Ok, I can do this.” _

He takes one step and then another, and they still feel  _ right _ . The third is even easier and, by the fourth, his gait is natural once again. 

He doesn’t make a fifth.

Aziraphale’s hand is on his arm, gentle and firm and sizzling with the barest crackle of holy goodness – an entirely inexplicable but undoubtedly genuine  _ caring _ that has always managed to zero in on Crowley with laser-like focus. It stops him from making more than two feet of progress towards the door.

“Crowley,  _ wait.” _

And he does, because he has very little choice. But he can’t turn around, can’t think of it, because he knows what will be on Aziraphale’s face and he can’t bear to see it. He’s weak, always has been. Was an absolutely wretched excuse for an angel and is an even  _ worse _ demon. Because if he turns, if he sees, he knows he just might give in.

“Are you  _ sure _ you’re alright? You don’t have to– You can–  _ Please–” _

“No.” Crowley is already shaking his head and he wrenches his arm free from Aziraphale’s fingers. Aziraphale lets him go.

_ I want to, _ he doesn’t say.  _ I’m sorry.  _

And just like that, with no further questions, with no further answers, he’s out of the shop, the bells above the door jangling as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art by [Mulasawala!](https://mulasawala.tumblr.com)


	2. Chapter 2

The doors are locked. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, not really. Throughout more than half the week, the doors are locked. Crowley pulls his hands away from the handles that he’d just rattled (perhaps a touch too aggressively, in hindsight) a moment before and dusts one off out of a sense of habit on the outside of his jacket. The other he raises in the air, fingers already coming together, and– Stops.

Perhaps he should– After yesterday, he’s not so sure he should just go about barging in. Unexpected. Unannounced. But he doesn’t think he’s ever done anything else. He’s a _demon_. He goes wherever he pleases. Whenever. He doesn’t need to– to call ahead. Or _knock_. 

A minute later (Fifty-three seconds. Not that he was counting.) Aziraphale opens the door while the sound of Crowley's knuckles rapping against the wood still rings in his ears. His face runs a racetrack of expressions – annoyance, up to surprise, curving into joy, and then taking a sharp left down into bewilderment.

“Crowley.” There’s the barest hint of an upwards lilt at the end of his name. “My dear, you _know_ you can just come in. Why on _earth–”_

Crowley’s fist lowers from where it had still been hovering midair just before the door had swung out from underneath it and growls, “Oh, _forget it.”_

Aziraphale blinks, looking like he’s holding a number of words just behind his closed mouth, but he steps aside without saying anything. Crowley steps through the door, face resolutely forward. He nudges his sunglasses up as far as they can go with twitching fingers.

“Crowley–”

“Opening up today?”

“I wasn’t planning on it. What–?”

“Good. Let’s go out?”

He winces at the question in his own voice. He hadn’t meant it to sound quite so… unsteady. Like he doesn’t really have a plan. (He doesn’t, but Aziraphale doesn’t need to know that.) He’s contemplating whether to turn on his heel and run after apologizing or _before._

“Let me grab my coat.”

Crowley blinks, turning his head. Aziraphale smiles, a soft-edged thing that makes his heart jump. He grumbles something unintelligible even to his own ears as Aziraphale breezes past him to retrieve his coat from his office.

It's chilly on the streets. Even in the middle of April, it’s not usual for this area to experience a cold snap. It’s the last dregs of winter digging its claws in in an attempt to hold on just a little longer. But the sun is out and the wind is all but absent. Crowley walks with his hands deep in his pockets, although that has nothing to do with the weather. Anyway, if it _were_ colder, it wouldn’t make all that much of a difference given that they could just choose not to feel it. 

They’ve traversed several blocks in silence, which Crowley is grateful for. His mind is plenty loud enough already. He still hasn’t figured out where they’re going; he just picked a direction and walked. If Aziraphale had picked up on any of his uncertainty, however, he hasn’t shown it. He seems content to continue ahead, eyes flickering between the various shops and humans bustling about between them.

He’s glaring at the sign for a café a ways ahead of them and trying to remember whether or not he’s seen that particular owl logo before when Aziraphale veers to the side, pulled into the gravity of a post on the street corner that has been painted with a mosaic of colorful flyers.

“Ah, look,” he hums, tapping at one that’s decorated simply – white with highlights of pastel pink and daffodil yellow. “This is that new bakery I was telling you about, Crowley. We’ve really got to get out to try it sometime.”

Crowley hums his acknowledgement, but he’s not looking at the bakery flyer. His eye is drawn to another one entirely – a sheet of green paper that’s been tacked higher up and partly obscured by a more amateurish band logo. _Farmers Market,_ it advertises in a bold, rustic font. And there, below an illustration of a bushel of vegetables and a couple of chickens, is the location and times when it’s held. Crowley glances down at his watch. A twitching smile grabs the corner of his mouth.

“C’mon, angel, this way.”

Aziraphale turns that same smile on him, this time with a curious tint to it. He doesn’t say anything. Just falls into step with Crowley and lets him lead the way. 

Aziraphale lights up the second they turn the corner and see the street lined on both sides with a rainbow of stalls of all shapes and sizes. Crowley stifles a laugh at the small excited noise that escapes him. He gets his attention with a little nudge of the elbow and, when Aziraphale turns those sky bright eyes on him, gestures for him to lead the way.

The Farmers Market isn’t a recent addition to this part of the city, by any means; it’s been around for a number of years. It’s just not something that’s really, well… Crowley’s scene. If he’d had any doubts that Aziraphale had visited before, however, they are dispelled with gusto the moment Aziraphale beelines for a specific stall with an enthusiastic wave to the young woman running it. 

Crowley stands just behind him, listening distantly to the flurry of questions Aziraphale asks about her honeybees. He can feel the twinge of a subtle miracle lacing his reassurances after she admits to needing a good season in order to pay some unexpected bills.

After the honey stand, they pop by a number of produce sellers. (Besides the people running them, Crowley sees little difference between them.) Then there’s a jeweller, and a weaver, and an older man who sits whittling away behind a display of woodcarvings, some of which are as tall as him. 

Aziraphale wants to stop at _every_ stall, zigzagging between them with a sense of purpose. He chats amicably with most of the sellers for at least a little while, even the ones he doesn’t seem to have a pre-established rapport with.

The marketplace is lively without being crowded. It’s nearly eleven already and the earliest of the early birds, the morning Market enthusiasts, have already come and gone. Those who remain are, for the most part, perusing at a more relaxed pace. Drifting rather than marching. Even some of the stalls, fresh out of stock, have already packed up and returned home. A peaceful kind of calm hangs in the air. Here in this bubble that is somehow beyond the rest of the world, time stands suspended. At least for the next hour or so.

Crowley doesn’t notice when Aziraphale floats on ahead of him. He is stuck frozen in place, eyes glued to a clothing stall on the other side of the street. There is a handbag swaying from its hanging display as the barest of breezes changes direction. The dark black snakeskin pattern glints silver where it catches the sun as it moves.

“Crowley.” Aziraphale’s voice comes from right next to him, and he jolts, tearing his eyes away from the stall across the way. “Are you… alright?”

Crowley stiffens, the line of his spine going rigid. He’s grateful, in this moment, that they’re outside of the bookshop. Out in public. Where he can wear his sunglasses and Aziraphale can’t ask him to take them off. He thinks of fluorescent yellow and slitted pupils.

 _No._ He forcibly snaps his mind away from the image. That’s something he can’t handle right now. 

“What do you mean?” he says in a nothing tone, with just enough space between the question and the answer that he just _knows–_

“Oh, Crowley, really!” _There it is._ “Don’t play dumb! You know precisely what I mean, and we both know it. Yesterday, at the shop. You just– left. Suddenly. And I didn’t know if you were _hurt,_ or if I’d done–”

“No!” Crowley says, followed by a sharp intake of breath. Aziraphale starts. “It wasn’t you.”

Silence hangs between them, drowning out the bustle of movement around them. It carries on, stretching to a length that's just nearly uncomfortable before Aziraphale breaks it, voice quiet and halting.

“Then, what?’ he asks, head down. His feet scoff against the pavement. “Crowley, please talk to me. You can, you know. About _anything.’_ ’

 _Anything?_ If only the angel knew.

 _What would you say if I told you I loved you?_ he wants to ask. What he says instead is, “It was a curse. You knew that.”

Aziraphale doesn’t say anything, just watches Crowley with an intensity that will never cease to unnerve him, no matter how many times he finds himself on the other end of that look. He holds steady.

“As if it wasn’t bad enough to just get cast out, She had to go rub salt in it by turning me into–” _A monstrosity._ Cursed to crawl on his belly and eat dust. Crowley swallows and it hurts. “A snake. The Serpent of Eden.”

Recognition dawns on Aziraphale’s face, clear as the blue of his eyes, quicker than Crowley had hoped it would appear. The soft turn of his expression and the distressed furrow of his brow are almost too much for Crowley to look at.

“That’s what happened yesterday.” It’s not a question. Aziraphale’s voice is no more than a wispy sigh when he says, “Oh, _Crowley._ Why didn’t you tell me?”

Now, Crowley really does turn away. Even behind his sunglasses, he has to squeeze his eyes shut.

“Angel,” he says, gritting his teeth against the scratchy quality of the sound. “You couldn’t– I didn’t want you to see me. Not like _that.”_

“Why?”Aziraphale asks softly.

“Because I don’t want you to remember what I really am,” Crowley says, exhaling on a shaking breath. “A snake. A _demon_ . There’s a reason they sent _me_ to Eden. All I’ve ever been good for is _making trouble._ Taking beautiful things and ruining them. And because I thought–”

For a moment, neither of them says a thing. The world still moves around them, carrying the chatter of excited voices from all around and the scrape of feet across pavement. Aziraphale steps forward, reaching for Crowley, but hesitates before he can make contact.

“You thought what?” he asks, barely audible over the background buzz of the market. 

Crowley sighs.

“I’m always afraid I’ll forget what it was like to be human… or, well, something that looks like it, anyway. That I won’t be able to come back.”

He trails off. What more is there to be said? He’s already exposed himself. Revealed the truth about the wretched creature he truly is. Hah. As if Aziraphale hadn’t already known.

“Crowley. Look at me.” The tense edge of the words leaves no room for objection and Crowley swallows down the twisted knot of fear clawing at his chest – _This is it. It’s all over. He_ knows _now, and there’s no way he’s going to hang around_ – and raises his head obediently.

There is a blaze of determination in Aziraphale’s eye. Crowley wasn’t expecting that.

“We’re leaving,” Aziraphale says abruptly, turning on his heel. Crowley blinks at the space where he had just been, nearly getting whiplash trying to keep up with his movement.

“Angel, wha–?” he says intelligently. “Sorry, _where_ are we going?”

“Back to the bookshop. Come on, then.”

  
  
  


As soon as they’re through the door, Aziraphale shucks his coat, hardly stopping as he does. When he hands it off without even looking, Crowley reaches automatically to receive it. He waits for some kind of explanation while he holds the coat out, letting it unfurl to its full length. But Aziraphale just keeps walking, keeping up the brusque pace he had maintained the entire way back as his feet carry him to a nearby bookshelf.

He stops in front of it and leans in, squinting at titles. After a moment, he clucks his tongue and steps carefully around a cardboard box to continue down the row. Crowley sighs, tossing the coat up on the rack next to him and smoothing down the collar.

“Now that we’re here, would you care to explain why on earth you left the Farmers Market like it was the second coming of Satan and Gabriel himself had appeared to drag you back up to the Celestial Battalion?”

He crosses his arms over his chest, watching Aziraphale shuffle around a stack of books on the floor and trace a light finger over the line of spines in front of him. 

“We’re looking for books.” 

_We?_ Crowley mouths silently. 

With a quiet _ah,_ Aziraphale bends over to examine the stack he had just circumvented. A moment later, his face lights up and he carefully extracts a single volume with practiced hands that barely even shift the tower’s balance.

“Right. I must have missed it when you explained to what end, exactly, _we_ were doing that,” Crowley grumbles.

“I didn’t,” Aziraphale says, far too cheerfully, as he blows a puff of dust off the cover of the book in his hands and leafs briefly through the pages. Crowley throws his arms up above his head.

“A _zira_ phale!”

With a huff, Aziraphale finally stops in his persistent hunt just long enough to look at him. The expression on his face stops Crowley in his tracks. There is a weight to his features that borders on grave. It pulls his mouth into the smallest of frowns and yet does nothing to undermine the steady sharpness of his gaze.

“Crowley. I don’t know what happened in the past, or what you've been told, but I absolutely refuse to let you go on believing that any single part of you is lesser than any other,” he says. Despite the protests rising to Crowley’s tongue, he doesn’t dare interrupt. Not when the tone of Aziraphale’s voice leaves no room for argument. “And the first step of that is _research.”_

He holds up the book that he’s been holding. _Herpetology: An Introductory Biology of Amphibians and Reptiles,_ it reads, with finer text near the bottom that labels it _4th Edition_. Crowley hesitates.

“Right,” he says. “Sorry, could you? Elaborate on that?” 

“Well, concerning your fears, the better you understand yourself – about what you’re capable of and how your body functions – the easier it should be to control. Theoretically. I’m also hoping it’ll help somewhat with helping you appreciate yourself – your snake self, that is – more as well.” 

Crowley blinks, glancing between Aziraphale and the cover of the book in his hands and then back again. A wave of fondness starts somewhere in his heart and leaks out to engulf him through the rest of his bloodstream. Of _course._ Leave it to Aziraphale to be able to look at _any_ problem and find a way to turn to books in order to solve it. And yet…

“Well, angel, I suppose I don’t have any other ideas.” He shrugs. “So…”

“So,” Aziraphale says, a familiar smug grin lighting his face. He shoves the book towards Crowley, who catches it clumsily against his chest. “Research.” 

  
  
  


The air is liquid.

It is thick around him. He can feel it pressing in against the spikes of his scales, flowing in a nearly solid curtain, constricting his movement. He notices, however, that he can still breathe unrestricted.

The ground beneath him is sturdy, and he can feel the whispering touch of grass along his flank. He can’t see it; looking down is impossible. The bookshelves around him are familiar, filled with the green spines of hardcover volumes, reaching to the sky as far up as he can look. 

He traverses them effortlessly, flowing between the rows with the ease of intimate familiarity. The air pushes down on him. He breathes through it. 

The room is full but empty, and he can’t think of what’s missing. What could be missing? He searches between books, under chairs, through desk drawers. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for.

There is a book on the floor in the center of the room. A white book with pages that breathe as they flip in on themselves. No, it’s not a book.

_Aziraphale._

Aziraphale stands in the center of the room, feathers dripping from his brilliant white wings like a blinding snowfall. He is in profile, a beautiful sight in glimmering ivory from head to toe, nose buried in a book.

He calls Aziraphale’s name. It’s no more than a hiss.

Moving forward, waves coiling but not, muscles working overtime at as much of a sprint as a slither can be. _Aziraphale_ . Hiss. _Look at me._ Hissssssss.

Aziraphale doesn’t turn, doesn’t look, doesn’t notice anything is missing. There is nothing to notice.

_But I’m here._

There is a wall. He can see the top, can see his angel beyond. He can’t get over it. Hiss. Aziraphale doesn’t turn. The air is heavy. He breathes.

He can’t breathe.

  
  
  


Air spikes into Crowley’s lungs with the force of a spear to the chest, hitting hard enough that he chokes on it. The first thing he’s aware of in the pitch darkness that encircles him on all sides is the wet heat of tears against his cheeks. There are even more already pooling in the corners of his eyes, spilling out over his lower eyelids to join the rivulets that sear across his skin.

When he exhales, a hiccuping sob echoes through the stillness of the room, punched from his ribcage without any input from him. He shudders and it’s only then that he becomes aware of just how tightly the bed quilt is wrapped up in his fist. (So tight that it’s nearly numb.)

 _“Shit!”_ he swears. Except he doesn’t, not really. Because all that comes out is yet another garbled sob, wet and throaty, in a seemingly endless string of them. He grits his teeth against the sounds punching their way out of the back of his throat – _Pitiful. –_ but that only serves to constrain them to his diaphragm, which then stutters painfully in his chest. He wraps one arm tight around his middle, feeling the pulse of his hiccups against it, and rubs the other fiercely against his eyes, to no avail. A high-pitched whine fights its way into the air, giving way to a choking gasp, and he gives in. Curls up as tight as he can into himself and lets the sounds go. 

They reach his ears as if he’s listening to himself from another room, and he is helpless to do anything but sit there, face pressed sharply against his knees where they’re pulled to his chest. He doesn’t know how long he sits like that, gasps slowing to whimpers and then nothing but heavy breathing as he slowly, _slowly_ becomes more aware of the world around him.

He’s still in his bedroom – _not_ his bedroom. The room above the bookshop. (That only he uses.) He can feel the familiar soft cotton of the sheets against his skin (He still _has_ skin, thank the stars. Not a glint of scale in sight.) and it’s a small comfort, but one that helps him hold steady nonetheless. They are rumpled beneath him, tossed awry no doubt by his own sleep-driven thrashing. 

He strains his ears through the darkness, listening for any sign of Aziraphale even if it’s a long shot. He’s likely downstairs sunk into his armchair or at his desk, mind flying elsewhere on the pages of a book.

When he lifts his chin, he realizes it’s not as dark as it first seemed. It’s a clear night and the combination of street and moonlight that filters through the curtains is enough to see the room clearly. His pillow is hanging off one side of the bed. The heavy quilt is nothing more than a lump at his feet. He must have thrown it off while he was dreaming.

_The air is heavy. He can’t breathe._

As his hyperventilation slows to a stop and evens out once more, lungs tight and tired, he rubs the last of the salt streaks from his face and grabs for his pillow. It _whumps_ around air as he sets it back in place and pats it until it no longer looks like a well-loved ragdoll. He doesn’t bother with the sheets under him. Just lies back, head feeling hollow as it takes on a proper amount of oxygen once more. He pulls the quilt up under his nose, breathing in the scent of old paper and book glue that permeates every inch of the shop. This time, the weight of the blanket over his shoulders is a comfort. Something to cling to.

Minutes later, Crowley hears the scraping of a chair against wood from somewhere on the floor below. His heart beats just a little more steadily.


	3. Chapter 3

The sun has barely breached the windowsill when Crowley throws on a pair of jeans and slinks down the stairs. He follows the musky scent of fresh-brewed tea and the subtle electric whir of the kettle to the kitchenette. Sure enough, Aziraphale is already there. He stops with his favorite angel wing mug halfway to his lips when Crowley stops in the doorway, eyebrows climbing to his hairline over wide eyes.

“Oh, Crowley!” he says, setting down his mug. He blinks, and then shakes his head, gaze following Crowley’s groggy approach. “Excuse me, my dear boy. I just hadn’t expected you to be up and about already. I’m afraid I haven’t put the coffee on quite yet–”

“‘S fine,” Crowley grumbles as he slips past Aziraphale, shifting on his way to leave plenty of space between them. 

He plops down in one of the two chairs at the tiny round table squeezed into the back of the room and it knocks against the wall under the force of his weight. Stifling a yawn, he rubs at his eyes, watching as Aziraphale digs into one of the cupboards above the counter.

“Y’don’t have to–”

“Oh, hush,” Aziraphale tuts cheerfully. He pulls the triangular bag of coffee grounds down and sets it on the counter to open it. “I want to. Besides, you’re going to need to keep awake if we plan on continuing our research this morning.”

There is an unspoken question in his voice, and he glances over at Crowley with an innocence that Crowley can see through like glass.

“Yeah, ‘course,” he says with a crack of his knuckles. “Why else would I be up so early? Ready to get to it.”

His jaw immediately stretches in a yawn, the kind that’s impossible to tamp down based only partly on the fact that it sneaks up on you.

Aziraphale chuckles and returns to the task at hand. Crowley watches him measure coffee grounds with dedicated precision, a soft glow of affection blooming in the center of his chest. A hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, and he doesn’t even try to hide it.

As the familiar sounds of the morning play in the background – Aziraphale humming to himself as he butters toast, the pattering of the coffee machine – Crowley’s eyelids begin to feel heavy. It’s warm in the kitchenette and the comfortable familiarity of it all has his consciousness drifting.

Aziraphale sets a black mug down on the tabletop in front of him.

Crowley blinks, lifting his chin from his hand so he can wrap both of them around the mug. Just the smell of it already has him feeling more present, more awake.

“Thank you,” he murmurs, voice still rusty at the edges.

“You can go back to sleep, you know,” Aziraphale says, taking the seat across from Crowley, his own mug in hand. “If you’d like. There’s nothing saying we have to get started right away. Or today, even.”

Crowley’s head tilts to one side, nose scrunching around a questioning look.

“What d’you mean? I’m fine. Raring to go, in fact.”

Aziraphale looks at him for a second. Crowley can practically see the thoughts forming in his mind, organizing themselves behind his eyelids. But when he finally opens his mouth all that comes out is, “Alright.” And then his face disappears behind a sip of tea.

Crowley stares down at the book splayed open against his lap. Clara Schumann’s _Piano Sonata in G Minor_ is playing in the background, and half of the window shades are open, letting the warm yellow light of the sun filter through. A sliver of it cuts across Crowley’s arm, and he leans into the side of the chair that’s closest to it. 

After they’d moved back into the bookshop proper, Aziraphale had taken a minute to search before pulling this book specifically from a stack and handing it over with a brief, “You should start with this one.” Crowley had taken one look at the cover and all the colorful pictures of snakes that had swirled across it and, trying and failing not to sound offended, had asked, “Are you _sure?”_

But Aziraphale had insisted, and so Crowley had dutifully taken his seat, still dubious. Despite the apparently childish nature of the book, however, it’s… actually somewhat interesting. Moreso than he would have expected. (Not that he’s going to admit that to Aziraphale.) He’s been a snake, at least in part, as long as he can remember. He knows the ins and outs of his own being all too well – knows the movement of sinewy muscle just as well as he knows how to use his hands. These are things that are rooted in him on some deeper level. Instinctually.

But, as it turns out, he doesn’t know a lot about snakes as a whole. Not from an objective point of view. He looks over the glossy images and artistically rendered diagrams on the pages of _The Book of Snakes_ with interest. Sure, to some extent, he already knew that he has two lungs of mismatched lengths, but seeing it drawn out and labeled with clinical precision is another thing entirely.

Right on the book’s cover, it touts itself as _A life-size guide to six hundred species from around the world!_ Twenty minutes ago, had someone asked him how many species of snakes even exist in the world he likely would have said something along the lines of: “I dunno, thirty or so? ‘S that too many? Even _that_ seems excessive if you ask me.” 

Even if he hadn’t forgotten entirely about river-dwelling snakes, he _never_ would have been able to imagine there being more than six _hundred_ of the buggers. He’s squinting at the nearly unbelievable image of a long, thin-bodied, black and green snake hovering midair, nothing but sapphire sky around it. Who knew some snakes were capable of _flight?_ (He is, admittedly, a little jealous.)

He’s contemplating the physics of trying to maintain his wings in snake form when he is torn back out of the clouds and into the room in the present moment by the rolling thunderclap of a number of books tumbling to the ground. He jumps in his seat, head snapping up to look over the edge of the book. 

Aziraphale is standing near the end of the couch, staring blankly down at his feet where what surely once had been a tower of books is now an inglorious hill. 

“Aziraphale?” 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, the softness of his voice penetrating the lilting notes of Schumann’s fourth movement.

Crowley blinks and raises his eyes from the book on his lap. It’s not until he sees the look on Aziraphale’s face that his mind catches up with the trembling of the angel’s voice. He snaps the book closed instantly, the danger of losing his place the farthest thing from his mind.

“Angel–?”

“I think we should take a break.”

Crowley sets _The Book of Snakes_ aside, forgetting entirely about what he’d been doing just a second ago.

“Sorry, when have _you_ ever wanted to take a break from _reading?”_ he scoffs, not quite keeping down the sudden lump of worry in his throat. “What’s going on?”

“That’s what I should be asking you,” Aziraphale huffs without venom. “Crowley, I _heard_ you last night.”

Crowley’s breath catches somewhere between his lungs and the extra oxygen begins to burn. He curses Aziraphale’s quick attention. The new line that creases his brow is all the indicator Crowley needs to know that Aziraphale caught the surely stricken look in his eye before he could properly school his expression.

Numbly, he tries his first reaction anyway.

“What do you–?”

“Don’t.”

Crowley’s jaw snaps shut. The ferocity of Aziraphale’s glare keeps him glued in place. His fingers itch to reach for the sunglasses tucked into his breast pocket, but he doesn’t dare.

“I could hear you from down here. Crowley, you were _sobbing._ It was–” Aziraphale’s dry swallow is visible even from across the room. He presses both palms into his eyes and takes a deep, shuddering breath.

Crowley sinks back as far as he can go into his chair. He can feel the heaviness of his own eyelids, the tiredness in his limbs, more starkly than before. He’s a demon. He doesn’t need sleep. And yet, he hadn’t gotten nearly enough of it, lying wide awake in bed for half the night, staring into the darkness as it had crept into his lungs.

“Just night terrors, angel,” he murmurs. He can hear the plea in his own voice. “That’s all.” 

“I felt _wretched.”_ Crowley’s stomach swoops. “You sounded like you were in so much pain, and there was nothing I could do– I couldn’t _stand_ it. I couldn’t stand just… listening to you and not being able to help. I–”

Aziraphale takes a deep breath, pinching the bridge of his nose so hard that even from here Crowley can see the skin between his eyes going white under his fingers.

“Angel…” he starts, but the words die in his throat. He doesn’t know what to say. “I’m sorry. I–”

Aziraphale shakes his head, hand falling away from his face to reveal the smallest of smiles that doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Don’t apologize,” he says. “There’s nothing to apologize for. Just… Would you please talk to me? Crowley, I–” He stops, shoulders sagging. “I just… Tell me what’s going on. Please.”

The air between them crackles with the weight of the silence that hangs around them. After a moment, Crowley looks away, down at where his hands are formed into tight fists atop his lap, unable to hold Aziraphale’s eye any longer. Time ticks on, marked only by the rhythms of Beethoven. (Clara had come to a stop about a minute ago, and he’s not sure which of them switched it back to Beethoven, but he can feel the notes like a strange lump in his throat.) Aziraphale sighs, the barest of sounds, and there is a sound like hands against paper when he shifts his weight.

“I dream about being the serpent.”

Crowley immediately bites the inside of his cheek. The metal taste of skin coats his tongue and he clings to the sensation of it. When he looks up again, Aziraphale is watching him closely with an unreadable expression. He bolsters his resolve, sucking in a breath and holding it tight in his lungs as he continues.

“Ever since I shifted. Every time I fall asleep.” He shudders as he remembers the liquid air, the emerald emptiness. “It’s never quite the same, but it always feels like I’m– I’m _drowning_ somehow.”

Aziraphale’s eyes widen and he doesn’t have to say it aloud for Crowley to know he’s thinking of a stark white porcelain bathtub in a dirty gray room somewhere in the halls of hell.

“And?” Aziraphale asks, voice surprisingly steady.

“And–” _You’re there._

Crowley cuts himself off, teeth clacking together painfully with the force with which he shuts his mouth. He doesn’t know how Aziraphale’s going to take _that_ revelation. Never mind that the angel has been a consistent and prominent feature in his dreams for the better half of six centuries.

“Crowley, you can tell me. Whatever it is, no matter–”

“You’re there.” Crowley lowers his eyes, fingernails digging into the black denim of his jeans. “You’re _right_ there, but you never see me. Until it’s too late. And sometimes it’s you and sometimes it’s me, but I usually wake up just before one of us– _Y’know.”_

He sucks in a breath. He can still feel his fangs sinking into tender porcelain flesh, the surge of death through his venom gland.

A single tear slips down his cheek, one he hadn’t even realized was forming until it was too late. He wipes it away with a harsh hand before shutting his eyes and pressing both palms hard against his eyelids with a hiss.

_“Fuck!”_

He doesn’t hear Aziraphale move, but there’s a gentle hand encircling his arm, fingertips just touching around its circumference, and he jolts, peeking out through one eye. Aziraphale is there, face inches from his own, his features dripping with a sadness that Crowley can’t stand being responsible for.

“‘M’alright, angel. S’fine,” he says through the wetness rising in his throat. But he doesn’t shake Aziraphale off. Just swallows and tamps down the memories, shoves them back into a box. They’re only dreams, after all. “I’m ready to keep going. Got more books to get through, I’m sure.”

The moment Aziraphale draws away, Crowley already misses his touch, his proximity. He stands straight and shakes his head.

“No, I– I still think a break would be good. If you’re still tired, you should turn in early. If you’d like, that is.”

Crowley _is_ still tired, certainly. He doesn’t technically need sleep – demon and all – but there are certain things that his body, the flawless imitation of human it is, has gotten used to. You don’t just break a few centuries of routine without consequences.

More than that, he can’t imagine spending the rest of the evening in the bookshop with only Tchaikovsky to break the stretches of silence between the tension in the air. 

“Sure, angel,” he says, standing so abruptly that Aziraphale takes another step back. “Whatever you say.” 

  
  
  


Aziraphale asks if he’s ready and Crowley nods. 

This is it, the moment of truth. They’re standing in the center of the bookshop – the same place where this all began. Aziraphale’s hand is warm against his arm.

“I’m right here,” he says, that thousand-watt celestial smile never leaving his face. Joy surges in Crowley’s chest. He closes his eyes and breathes. Thinks of scales and fangs and coiling muscle. Lets go of a shred of his humanity and gives in to the monster.

The shift is quick. Familiar and easy, like slipping into an old, well-fitting jacket. Crowley coils comfortably in on himself, lifting his head and opening his mouth wide to absorb the taste of the air.

Aziraphale is watching him with a fondness that makes the rhythm of his tiny snake heart skyrocket, and he stretches the curves of his body, delighting in the liquid way he moves. His pleased hum comes out as just the whisper of a hiss.

Aziraphale leans down and Crowley slinks forward to meet him halfway, reaching for his warmth, his radiance. Aziraphale stretches a hand out towards him – _Almost._ – and stops.

The smell of the air against Crowley’s tongue turns sour as the expression on Aziraphale’s face drops, slipping from warmth, from **softness** , into a hard-edged twist of horror. He grimaces and his disgust is clear.

Crowley recoils, the length of him folding and knotting together, preventing his escape. Darkness falls like a sage curtain, broken only by the violently burning glow of Aziraphale’s flaming sword.

He tries to escape, to move backwards, but he’s falling over himself, scales catching together and cutting against skin. He tries to call out. 

_It’s me. No, no. It’s me._ Please.

He can’t get away. His eyes are hot with crimson tears. He curls tight, preparing for the blow.

“Crowley!”

The hit comes. It comes, but there is no pain. 

Crowley’s eyes open. His chest burns – not with the blow of a blade doused in holy flame, but with the sting of air as he gasps for breath.

Aziraphale’s hands are wrapped around his upper arms, solid and steady. Clear blue eyes hold his, reflecting nothing but concern. There is no trace of the horror from before.

“Crowley,” he says again, softly. “Shh. I’ve got you. I’ve _got_ you.”

“Angel,” Crowley says, except it comes out as a raspy breath. He can feel the hot streak of tears against his cheek, still flowing. Before he can raise his own hand, however, Aziraphale’s is already there. He cups the side of Crowley’s face with the lightest touch, thumb stroking gently against his cheekbone, just under his eye. A spark lights the length of Crowley’s spine and he leans into Aziraphale’s warmth, the solidness of his presence.

“Oh, my dear. You’re alright. I’ve got you. I’m here.”

Aziraphale’s other hand comes up to meet the first, circling Crowley’s face with his touch. Crowley clings to his wrists, holding him in place. They stay just like that for a long moment, Aziraphale whispering soft reassurances as Crowley’s breathing slowly, _slowly_ evens out. As his vision adjusts to the lack of light, the room expands around them and the tightness in his lungs dissipates.

His grip loosens and Aziraphale’s hands fall back to his lap. With a final sniff, Crowley rubs the last of the tears from his itching eyes and immediately lowers his gaze. Shame burns hot in his stomach, creeping up to the back of his neck, where he can feel his skin growing warm. He’s grateful for the darkness of night.

“‘M sorry,” he mumbles, parting the curtain of silence with a quiet voice.

“Don’t you dare apologize,” Aziraphale says, matching his volume but with an undertone that leaves no room for argument. Crowley nods without looking up. “Crowley… What was it this time?”

Crowley glances up without raising his head, chewing at his lip.

“You… didn’t recognize me,” he says, swallowing down the weight of emotion in his throat as he remembers the _hatred_ gleaming in the angel’s eye. He shudders and wraps his arms tight around his middle. Aziraphale doesn’t have to ask him what he means. “You had your sword. And you tried to–”

“Crowley.” 

He’s grateful for the interruption. His teeth clamp down hard against the inside of his cheek. When he glances up, he is surprised by the steadiness of Aziraphale’s gaze. 

“It was just a dream. I– I–” he huffs, but his frown isn’t directed at Crowley. “You’re my friend. I _care_ about you. And _nothing_ will change that, least of all something as silly as how you look. I know you knew that already, but I thought I should say it anyway.”

“Thanks, angel,” Crowley says, voice hoarse. “I’m– I’ll be fine. Really.”

“I know.” 

Aziraphale smiles and it lights up the whole room. He stands and Crowley’s fool heart swoops down to his stomach, already missing him despite the fact that he’s not even left yet. But Aziraphale doesn’t turn to the door. He circles around the end of the bed, stopping on the other side. There is a soft thunk as his shoes hit the floor, and then he’s pulling up the covers.

“Angel?” Crowley says in a small voice, half afraid that breaking the silence is going to also shatter… whatever this is that’s happening. Aziraphale freezes.

“Is this… alright?” he says, grip visibly tightening around the quilt in his hand. “I thought– I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Crowley nods silently, heart thumping against his ribcage with such intensity that it feels it might burst. He doesn’t trust himself to speak. Can’t guarantee he’ll say the right words instead of something stupid. Something dangerous.

Aziraphale nods. For a moment, they just sit there staring at each other in the silence of the night. And then, slowly, carefully, the bed shifts beneath him as Aziraphale climbs in. Crowley lays back once more, readjusting to give him room as he nestles his head against his pillow. Aziraphale settles in easily, turned on his side facing him, and Crowley can still see the curve of his smile even in the dark.

“Goodnight, Crowley,” he whispers.

“Night,” Crowley grunts back.

Aziraphale closes his eyes and Crowley lays still, gaze flickering over the planes of his face. Listening to their shared breathing. After a moment, he scoots closer, chasing the warmth of Aziraphale’s body, the scent of paper and chamomile.

When he shuts his eyes, he feels at ease once more.

  
  
  


Crowley wakes to heat and darkness. 

He blinks his eyes open and lays in groggy confusion for a moment. What time is it? It doesn’t _feel_ like it should still be the middle of the night. Then again, this wouldn’t be the first time his internal clock has failed him miserably. He breathes in on a sleep-stretched yawn and catches the barely-present scent of book glue.

Oh, right. _Aziraphale._

He’d come in some time in the night, when Crowley had been suffering through yet another nightmare. And then, he’d– _Oh._

Right.

Crowley shifts, becoming alarmingly aware of the gentle pressure of a hand against his back. He tenses up, head jerking back on rubbery neck muscles, and ends up staring right up into the brilliant blue of Aziraphale’s eyes.

A small, sleep-strangled noise of surprise squeaks from Crowley’s throat. Aziraphale doesn’t move, just gives him a morning softened smile and begins to trace small, barely-there circles into Crowley’s back with the hand that’s already there.

“Good morning,” he murmurs. “Sleep well?” 

Crowley fists his hands tighter in the material of Aziraphale’s shirt before he realizes what he’s doing. He nods numbly, not trusting the quality of his own voice.

“Good.” Aziraphale’s smile grows even brighter, if that’s even possible. 

After a moment, when Crowley realizes that he’s not going to be thrown away, that Aziraphale’s expression won’t turn sour from looking at him, he begins to relax. He leans into the angel’s touch, burying his face back into his chest. 

If he only gets this this one time, he’s going to try to make it last as long as possible. To savor it. He is still a demon, after all. 

Which is why he can’t help the twinge of disappointment he feels when, after a handful of minutes, when his eyelids have begun to droop once more, Aziraphale pulls away. Crowley jumps and immediately lets go, ready to extract himself from his arms, from the bed, from the building entirely. But Aziraphale doesn’t go far, only just enough to find Crowley’s eyes once more, and the arm that still lies heavy over Crowley’s side prevents him from going far either. 

“You don’t have to get up,” Aziraphale says, voice sleep-rough in a way Crowley has never quite heard before. He can already feel the crawl of heat up the back of his neck and hopes Aziraphale can’t feel the staccato drumbeat of his heart where they’re still connected.

“‘S’alright,” he mumbles. He wants to say he’s not tired anymore; that was the best sleep he’s had in a long time (since even before the nightmares) and he’s ready to start the day. Well. Two out of three truths isn’t bad.

If he could only speak to the sun, he would ask it to stop right where it is. To not go any further. Because as soon as the day begins, this will be gone, reduced to nothing more than the memory of a dream.

 _Stay,_ he wants to beg. _Stay with me. Hold me just like this._

“I’m going to start breakfast,” Aziraphale says, voice curling up on the end with a question. Crowley nods in response. He’s already mourning the loss of Aziraphale’s warmth. “Come down whenever you’re ready.”

The air of the room rushes in, prickling too cold against Crowley’s skin, a poor replacement for the feeling of Aziraphale’s arm after it’s gone. He lets his eyes drift closed. It’s a stupid thing, but maybe, just maybe, if he doesn’t watch Aziraphale walk away, then he can pretend he hasn’t left at all.

That strategy fails him within moments, however, when he feels a brush of fingers across his forehead and his eyes shoot open once more. Aziraphale’s hand trails down the side of his face, coming to rest against his cheek. When he leans in and presses a kiss against the middle of Crowley’s forehead, his mind stutters to a stop. The gentle touch of lips, the whisper of a warm exhale against Crowley’s hairline, lingers just long enough for him to be _sure_ it’s not all an especially vivid episode from his imagination.

And then Aziraphale’s touch is gone, followed by the rest of him, and Crowley is left lying alone in bed, more awake than ever.


	4. Chapter 4

The smell of bread and bacon hits him halfway down the stairs.

Aziraphale _had_ said he was going to make breakfast, but Crowley apparently hadn’t really registered what that _actually_ included until the evidence was placed directly in front of him. (He can’t really blame himself for being distracted, he thinks, and then abruptly tries not to think about _that_ at all.)

When he turns the corner towards the kitchenette, he half expects to see a plume of smoke rolling through the doorway. There is, however, nothing of the sort. Nothing to indicate any reason for alarm. 

He stops short in the doorway when he nearly runs straight into Aziraphale. He raises a hand in front of him on instinct and, a second later, finds it wrapping around the handle of a freshly brewed mug of coffee.

“I heard you shuffling around upstairs,” Aziraphale says, a dual greeting and explanation.

“Thanks,” Crowley says, but he’s not looking at the mug in his hands. He’s staring past Aziraphale, towards the still steaming plate of bacon and loaf of bread set atop the table at the far end of the room. “You made those?”

“Hmm?” Aziraphale glances over his shoulder and then back with a nervous chuckle. “Oh! Yes, well. Just a pre-made dough and an ability to work the oven. I know you’re not exceptionally keen on– on food, but. I thought after, er, last night, it might be nice… If you don’t want–”

“It looks great, angel,” Crowley says softly, not bothering to hide the smile that pulls at his mouth. “Thank you.”

Aziraphale breathes a soft “ _Oh,”_ and his hands fall from where they’d been nervously pulling at his waistcoat. He nods and steps aside, gesturing wordlessly for Crowley to take a seat. He does and Aziraphale joins him a moment later, setting down his own mug and two plates on the table. 

The bread is still warm; it’s got a soft center and a nice, crispy crust. It’s nothing special and the bacon may be just a little too crunchy, but it’s perfect. Crowley couldn’t ask for anything more. The minutes pass slowly in contented silence, the only sound between them the occasional clink of a mug against the table. There’s a strange weight to the air, and it takes a moment for Crowley to realize what it is that’s… _off._

There’s no record spinning from the gramophone in the other room. No Tchaikovsky, no Debussy, not even Mozart. Crowley can’t remember a morning in the bookshop that hasn’t been backed by some kind of melody. Sometimes, when he’s felt particularly obstinate, he’s even been able to convince Aziraphale to let him put on a little Queen or Lou Reed. 

He’s not sure what it means, exactly, but he can’t help feeling at least partially responsible for the change. He thinks of last night. And earlier this morning. Wonders, for the briefest of flickering instances, if maybe, just maybe, he hadn’t been the only one stuck lingering in that moment.

He finishes his third slice of bread and pushes his chair back, brushing crumbs off on the thighs of his jeans.

“Oh!” Aziraphale says when he reaches for his plate and mug. “You don’t have to–” 

“I’ve got it,” Crowley stops him. He stops. Reiterates. “I want to.”

He smiles and Aziraphale smiles back, offering no further protest as Crowley adds his dishes to the growing pile.

He turns his attention to the methodical _scrub, rinse, dry_ of clearing out the sink, but has trouble keeping it there. Unbidden, his gaze continually wanders back across to the table. To Aziraphale, softly backlit against the hazy morning sun through the curtains. _Beautiful._

“So,” Crowley says, only half to keep the silence from descending once more, picking up where the running water had left off. Aziraphale turns from the newspaper atop the table. “What books am I starting with today?”

“Actually,” Aziraphale says, face splitting into a grin that rivals the sunlight, “I thought today we’d try something different.”

“You going to let me know where we’re going at any point, or…?”

Aziraphale hums noncommittally in the passenger seat of the Bentley, a smile on his face that Crowley wants to find insufferable, but that, in reality, just makes fondness bloom in his chest.

His admittedly exaggerated long-suffering sigh is cut short by Aziraphale sitting up straight and leaning so far forward his nose nearly touches the windshield as he says, “Oh, look! We’re here.” 

Crowley is kind enough not to say anything about the twinge of relief in his voice or bring up the block they’d passed a couple miles back – the one they’d circled three times. He squints through his sunglasses out the front window and, a second later, the same thing that Aziraphale had seen comes into view. 

The first thing he sees is a silo that stretches out of the top of the trees. It’s a clear cerulean blue, and the picture of a whale wrapping around its circumference is as tall as him six times over.

_Oh, no._

“Angel… don’t tell me we came all the way out here for an _aquarium?”_

“Oh, well, not just any aquarium. It is the largest one in the country, after all!”

 _“Right,”_ Crowley mumbles, turning his head to follow the sight out his side window as the come closer. From this angle, he can catch just a glimpse of a fully glass wall, at least the height of three stories, wrapping around the other side of the building.

It takes him a moment to realize that Aziraphale has gone conspicuously silent next to him. He swallows down his knotting throat, not daring to look over to see the expression that paints Aziraphale’s face.

“Sorry, angel. I just–”

“Will you at least give it a chance?” Aziraphale asks, voice small. Crowley instantly melts.

“Of course,” he says softly. _Anything for you._

It’s a short walk from the carpark to the Aquarium proper. As they approach, Crowley quickly realizes that he underestimated the size of the building from a distance. The whale painted on the side pillar is at least _ten_ times his height. 

If the way Aziraphale nearly bounces with excitement all the way up to the front door hadn’t already made the entire trip worth it, then the way he lights up the second they enter does.

Crowley is aware of the high ceilings and the cool blue light-reflection effect playing off the floor, but only vaguely. His attention is held rapt by the luminous smile stretching across Aziraphale’s face. 

They pass through the ticketing gate without garnering a second glance. There’s no mucking about in the entrance. No gradual transition into the main event. As soon as they pass by the gift shop door and under a large doorway (into the _Plymouth Sound_ exhibit, apparently) they come face to face with a massive, wall-length tank. Just _bam!_ Fish.

There is a faux-rock pool smack in the middle of the room, between a wall illustrated with marine conservation facts and the tank. Curiosity getting the better of him, Crowley stretches up on his toes to peer over the edge. Aziraphale’s elbow finds his arm in a gentle nudge that nonetheless makes him start. He runs a hand through his hair, grateful for the glasses that hide his sheepish expression. (It’s less about what he was caught doing than the simple fact that he’d been _caught_ at all.)

With a grin, Aziraphale gestures him forward and then, without waiting for him to move, approaches the side of the pool himself. He’s rolling up his sleeves when Crowley comes to his side, standing so close that his left arm grazes the fabric of Aziraphale’s coat. He watches, brow furrowed, as Aziraphale rinses his hands under a small plastic sink just at the side of the pool. The pool which is shallow and seems to be nothing spectacular. Not like the tank on the other wall, which is full of bigger, colorful fish. The little pool barely has anything other than sand and plastic rocks. Just a handful of little spiky things and a few yellow-orange sea stars clinging to the sides. It’s unclear if any of them are even meant to be alive.

Crowley turns his attention back to Aziraphale, who is standing with now-dripping hands, looking down into the shallow pool. He’s just about to ask him if he needs a towel miracled when Aziraphale sticks a hand straight into the water.

 _“Angel!”_ Crowley hisses, staring in horror. 

“Hmm?”

Crowley wraps a hand around his arm, which doesn’t budge, still elbow-deep in clear, green-blue water. He glances over at the uniformed employee leaning against the far wall, who is fortunately preoccupied with her phone. “What are you _doing?_ You– You can’t just–!”

Aziraphale blinks at the hand Crowley has wrapped around his arm and offers him a smile.

“Oh! Oh, my dear. It’s alright,” he says with a chuckle. He motions towards a sign above the plastic sink that Crowley hadn’t previously noticed: _Please wash hands before playing in the Starfish Touch Pool!_

“Ah,” Crowley mumbles. He can already feel the burn of embarrassment creeping into the tips of his ears. “Right.”

Aziraphale pulls his hand out of the pool and Crowley stiffens, the pit of his stomach dropping. Barely in the door and he’s already ruined this. 

“Well. Come on, then.”

Crowley’s head snaps up to see Aziraphale gesturing towards the sink. After a moment of hesitation, he rolls up his sleeves and steps over to wash his hands. A moment later, he’s standing over the pool, looking down into the translucent water, an irrational pinball of nervousness bouncing around his insides. The employee from earlier is nowhere to be found. She must have gone off to another area. Despite what the sign says and the sink with its foamy white soap, this still feels like something that he shouldn’t be doing. 

His eyes find Aziraphale. _Look, don’t touch._ That’s always been the rule. 

Aziraphale is smiling at him – a soft, gentle thing fills him with warmth even in the chill of the room. Crowley takes a breath and dives in.

The water is pleasantly tepid. There's a sea star clinging just off one of the plastic rocks in the middle of the pool. Its vibrant red-orange surface is illuminated by the 

lights around the pool, and it’s got five narrow, spindly arms that look like they could fall right off at the barest hint of pressure. 

Crowley reaches for it slowly, unsure if it even has the ability to be spooked, but not willing to risk it. He brushes just a couple of fingers over its middle, where all its arms come together. It’s bumpy. That’s the first thing he notices. Not in a way that’s rough and fine like sandpaper, but more like… pebbles. Actually, it doesn’t seem like it would feel much different than the rock it clings to.

 _“Huh,”_ he breathes, stroking carefully (very, _very_ carefully) over one of its arms. 

It’s really not much to look at. Not all that interesting to touch besides being a little rough. And yet… Well, it’s kind of amazing, isn’t it? That something so small, so delicate, is still _alive._ It’s a small miracle that it even exists in the first place, nonetheless that it’s here, now, sitting around in this pool where he’s actually touching it.

He hears a small splash just to his right and glances over to see Aziraphale holding his dripping hand just over the water. Without even thinking about it, Crowley miracles him dry. Aziraphale flexes his fingers and looks over at him, a pleased smile on his face.

Crowley ducks his head to hide the upwards twitch of his own lips. He gives his sea star one last gentle poke and pulls his own hand out of the water as well.

As he’s pulling his sleeves back down, he catches sight of the employee from before. She’s back in the same spot she’d been standing the first time he saw her, and she’s watching them with a knowing smile that melts into a smirk when she catches Crowley’s eye.

He feels an irrational blush heating the back of his neck and he huffs as he turns away. Before he can shove his hands into his pockets, however, he feels Aziraphale loop an arm through his own and just stops himself from ducking at the unexpected contact. 

“Shall we?” Aziraphale says, smiling up at him. Crowley adjusts to account for the angel’s hold with ease as he nods.

The farther they go, the more exotic the wildlife becomes. The _Plymouth Sound_ area focuses on local biodiversity and is home to a lot of freshwater creatures, most of which come in duller grays and browns and blue-greens – nothing like the sea stars they had started with. As they get farther along, into the _Eddystone Reef_ displays, the fish begin to get bigger and more exciting. There are sharks, rays, lobsters, and a cylindrical tank that hosts a cloud of floating jellyfish. 

One of the larger tanks near the beginning of the area contains a fish (a _wreckfish_ , Crowley reads out of the little book on the pedestal in front of it) that, lengthwise, must measure at least four feet. It takes up nearly a third of the tank on its own.

“Angel, look at this,” Crowley says, squinting as he follows the path of it. Back and forth. Near then far. Aziraphale draws away from the book in front of the tank on the nearest wall (Trust Aziraphale to find a book to occupy his attention in a museum full of living things.) and comes to stand at his elbow. 

“Oh my,” he says.

Crowley glances between his hand and the fish’s gleaming silver scales, wondering if he could even hold one. He grins and gently nudges Aziraphale with his shoulder.

“Great big bugger.”

Aziraphale’s laugh fills the nearly empty room.

In the _Atlantic Ocean_ section, Crowley attracts a couple looks from a handful of grade schoolers travelling in a pack when he says, “I wonder what in the _world_ She was thinking when She made that one.”

It’s not the last creature he makes a similar comment about. (“It’s _flat_ , angel! She had to stick both of its eyes on the same side!” and _“That’s_ a fish? I thought it was a smudge on the glass before it moved!”) As they float between displays, they chat. Aziraphale flips through the books in front of the tanks, absorbing all of the new information he can and passing on the most interesting tidbits to Crowley as well. 

There’s a snack cart near one of the hallways that branches off towards bathrooms and, it seems, the elevators that let out back on the first floor, close to the exit. It’s not the first one they’ve passed by any means, and Crowley hasn’t missed the longing look Aziraphale has cast towards each of them. He’s doing the same now, so preoccupied that he doesn’t even look when a lemon shark slips gracefully past the glass, sleek body twisting right in front of his face.

Crowley suppresses a grin and places a hand on Aziraphale’s arm – the briefest of touches, just to get his attention.

“Go, angel,” he says. “I know you’ve been wanting to.”

Aziraphale blinks up at him, expression quickly turning adorably sheepish.

“Ah. Are you sure? I don’t have to– They _do_ have some quite marvelous roasted peanuts, but–”

 _“Go,”_ Crowley insists with a chuckle. “I’ll just pop on ahead. Meet you round the corner?”

“Alright.” Aziraphale softens, a smile spreading easily across his face. He hesitates, looking for a moment like he wants to say something more. But he just nods once and turns, beelining for the snack cart. He lights up when he looks at the menu and Crowley shakes his head, not bothering to hide the smirk on his face.

He leaves Aziraphale to it, confident he has the ability to keep himself occupied for a while – either deciding how many of each menu item to sample or making amicable chatter with the employee working the counter.

The next section is small and dark. It’s filled mostly with educational displays, but there are also a few small tanks holding little tropical fish. They swim to and fro under the glow of a blacklight that turns their scales neon. He stands and watches them for a little while. It’s really quite incredible, the things She managed to hide deep in the Earth’s waters. Were the humans ever even meant to find them? He can just hear Aziraphale’s voice in his head saying something along the lines of “ineffable” and he moves on.

The next room makes him stop in the doorway. It’s green, almost startlingly so, especially compared to the darkness he’s just stepped out of. A distant, clearly looping soundtrack of jungle crickets and birdsong plays overhead. That’s… different.

The first glass tank in the wall to his left is starkly different than the others they’ve already passed. It isn’t filled with water at all – not counting a little bowl off to one side that imitates the appearance of rock. No, when he looks in there are sticks and leaves, truly a miniature jungle, and only when he really squints is he able to see anything more _alive_ inside. Up high in the branches, there is a small yellow frog clinging to a leaf. It doesn’t move except for the vibration of the skin under its chin and an occasional blink. As soon as he notices the first one, he finds at least three more. Most of them are up high, sheltered amongst the branches and leaves. There is only one on the ground, barely visible where it’s crouched under a thick stick in the corner. 

Interesting. Crowley hadn’t expected an aquarium to contain anything other than, well… _aquatic_ creatures. Not that he hasn’t enjoyed them, but it’s a nice change of pace.

He steps back from where he’s standing too close to the glass, ready to continue his circle around the room.

That’s when he sees it.

Near the corner of the opposite wall, almost as far as possible without leaving the room, there is a larger tank with nearly the same faux-jungle setup as the frogs, just on a much larger scale. Inside the tank is a snake.

Its thick coils are shoved directly up against the glass, scrunched into the corner, but its head is nowhere to be seen. Before Crowley even realizes what he’s doing, his legs are carrying him across the floor, past the frogs and lizards and what have you, until he’s standing right up against the snake tank.

Almost as if sensing his presence, the snake’s head slithers out from behind the rest of its body. It’s a boa constrictor – beautiful, and large, and elegantly dangerous. The dark cherrywood diamonds that line its side shift and contract as it moves with a lumbering grace. Its snout bumps the edge of the glass and then it’s rising, up, up, _up,_ until it is face to face with Crowley.

He swallows. Stares into silver steel eyes with narrow slit pupils and sees yellow reflected back. His hands are shaking. 

His lungs feel liquid heavy when he sucks in his next trembling breath. He can feel grass against the soles of his feet and the taste of apples chokes his tongue, but it’s tinged with soot and searing hellfire. 

The snake opens its pink mouth wide and Crowley’s ears fill with hissing. It bounces in his skull like snow static and works its way down into his throat. He bites down hard against it.

_Get up there and make some trouble._

That’s what started it. That’s all he’s good at, all he’s _ever_ been good at, whether or not he wants it. He never asked for this. He never asked to fall, to be cursed, to be _damned._

He can feel the scales under his skin. They are shifting, ready to come out, to bare the darkest depths of his soul for all the world to see his sins. The silver-tongued serpent with his venom and slippery tricks. They’re _always_ there. No matter how many times he tries to atone, to bury that part of him, to cut it out with a _knife._

He hears his name first. It doesn’t register in his ears, but then he becomes aware of the sound of his own breathing, hot and harsh through battered lungs.

 _“Crowley,”_ Aziraphale says again, and he sounds desperate. “Look at me.”

The gentlest touch against his arm is what brings him back. He blinks at the snake that’s still watching him. Now, its eyes don’t look so dark. Its head is tilted to one side and its neck sways beneath it, belly touching the glass farther down.

He turns to Aziraphale, to the light of his heaven-blue eyes that’s shining directly on him.

“Crowley,” he breathes, the heavy line of his brow relaxing only marginally. “Oh, thank goodness. _Breathe_ , my dear. Yes, that’s it. You’re alright.”

Crowley’s heart thumps hard against his chest, but the pressure against it eases as his breathing begins to even. He unclenches his fists and can feel the numbing rush of feeling back into his fingers.

“Aziraphale,” he says, and then stops. 

_Cursed above all creatures. Ten thousand times so abominable in his eyes._ He squeezes his eyes shut against the words, against the star-white images of a place, of a time so, _so_ long ago. 

“Crowley, talk to me, dear,” Aziraphale says, voice soft. His touch leaves Crowley’s arm to hold his hand instead, lacing their fingers together and squeezing lightly. “Let me help you. Let me in.”

Crowley shakes his head, eyes shut tight as he clings to Aziraphale’s hand in his own. He hears the sharp spike of Aziraphale’s inhale, but before he can interject, the words are tumbling out of Crowley’s mouth.

“I can’t. I don’t want you to see. I don’t want to lose you. I _can’t._ Aziraphale–”

Aziraphale eases his hand out of Crowley’s, but before the panic can set in, he feels the warmth of his palm against his cheek instead. Crowley blinks his eyes open in surprise.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale says quietly, his other hand raising to join the first on the other side of Crowley’s face. “Listen to me. The Serpent is part of you, yes, but you are more than that. So, _so_ much more. You’re brave, and clever, and kind, and no matter how you may _appear,_ that doesn’t change who you _are._ Do you understand?” 

“But when you actually see me?” Crowley says, barely more than a trembling breath. He clings to Aziraphale’s wrist, holding on to his touch. He can feel his pulse through his wrist as he strokes a thumb over soft skin. “Will you–?”

Aziraphale shakes his head.

“It won’t change a thing. I promise.”

“I love you,” Crowley breathes. The words spill forth like they’ve been punched out of him. Like the dam, after six thousand years, has finally worn thin. His heartbeat holds its breath.

The catch in Aziraphale’s throat is audible and Crowley braces himself. But Aziraphale doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t do anything other than smile – that smile that glows with an undefinable radiance that is purely _him._

“And I love you,” he says, a steadying slab of ground in the middle of Crowley’s storm. _“All_ of you.”

It’s Aziraphale that moves first. Of course it is, reckless as he’s always been. He surges forward at the same time that he pulls Crowley in. They fall together, mouths curving around each other like they were made to fit. Crowley holds on tight, hands finding a grip at Aziraphale’s waist, encouraging him closer. The kiss is soft, _so_ soft, and the gentle way Aziraphale pulls back before pressing in again, insatiable, has Crowley’s legs liquefying under him.

Dizzy with the spark of adoration he can feel in every part of Aziraphale’s touch, with the warmth of it, Crowley finally has to pull away. (He doesn’t want to. _Ever._ He could do this for eternity.) He clings to Aziraphale, burying his nose in the juncture between his neck and shoulder and breathing in the vanilla-chamomile scent of him as he waits for his equilibrium to even out once more. Aziraphale’s hands rub circles into his back and he just holds tighter, fisting his hands in the fabric of his coat.

“I love you,” he says again, just to feel how the words taste against his tongue. He’s not sure if it’s even audible, the way it’s spoken directly into Aziraphale’s shoulder, but it feels nice. Aziraphale chuckles and brushes just a hint of a kiss against the tip of his ear. Crowley’s face catches fire.

“I love you,” Aziraphale parrots back, and the smile in his voice is obvious. “Oh, my dearest, _so_ much.” 

As Crowley begins to become aware of the sounds of frogs chirping and running water, he takes a last, deep breath and disentangles himself. 

“Are you–?” he croaks and then stops, clearing his throat before trying again. “Are you ready to keep going?” 

Aziraphale blinks up at him in surprise, eyes searching.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to go home instead?”

 _Home._ Crowley’s stomach swoops at the word. At the causal way Aziraphale uses it to refer to the bookshop. His pride and joy, the small place he’d carved out into the Earth just for himself. The place he’s opened with willing arms to Crowley, giving a piece of it, of _himself,_ to Crowley too. 

“And miss this?” He slips his hand into Aziraphale’s, and the smile that he hasn’t been able to wipe from his face grows wider. “Not for the world.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Are you ready?” Aziraphale asks. 

Crowley swallows, holding just that much tighter to Aziraphale’s hand. Aziraphale squeezes back and it makes him feel instantly just a bit less unsure.

They’re standing in the middle of the bookshop, the royal golden light of dusk glowing in the covered windows. The last time Crowley did this, he was right over there, on the other side of the bookshelf that he’s staring at now. That time, in an act of protection and self-preservation, he let his body take over. It was an accident of instinct. He can count on one hand the days that have passed since and yet it feels like a different lifetime. 

“You’ll be fine,” Aziraphale says. It sounds a lot like a promise.

Crowley nods and turns away from the bookshelf, from the incident that is now nothing but a piece of his history. He focuses on Aziraphale, on the weight of the hand in his own, on the glow of his smile.

“What if I don’t come back?” 

Part of him feels silly for even asking, but a larger, more illogical part begs for an answer. Needs the reassurance.

“You will,” Aziraphale says, firmly. 

Crowley takes a breath and lets go of Aziraphale’s hand.

“Alright. I’m ready.” 

He takes a step forward, into the center of the space that has been cleared of books just for this occasion, keeping his back to Aziraphale. His fists clench at his side, but his fingers don’t shake. He blinks deliberately, shaking out his arms and legs. Cracking his neck from side to side. He continues to breathe, counting seconds in between. That’s all the time this is going to take, he reminds himself. Just a moment and he’ll be back again.

He thinks of the aquarium. Of his hand in Aziraphale’s, watching the way his eyes had shone as they’d appeared just in time to catch the second half of the dolphin show. Of watching him peruse the gift shop, clearly tempted to walk away with any and everything he could put his hands on. Of the blown glass octopus bookend he had eventually settled on. The kisses they’d shared in a corner next to a shelf of postcards, away from the view of the teenager working the counter. 

Crowley freezes.

“Oh, wait,” he says, and spins around on his heel.

“Crowley, what–?” Aziraphale starts. But he doesn’t get to finish his question. Crowley marches forward and, grabbing Aziraphale’s face gently between his hands, pulls him close, silencing him with a kiss. Aziraphale’s arms slink around his neck, and Crowley can taste the smile that pulls at his lips as he presses back eagerly.

 _“Oh,”_ Aziraphale says. Crowley could get used to seeing him out of breath in a hurry. 

With a final press of a kiss against Aziraphale’s cheek, Crowley takes a step back. This time, when he shifts, he’s aware of every beat of it. The twisting and shrinking. The flex of long muscle as it coils and twists into flexible shapes. In moments, he can feel the carpet against his ventral scales. The air around him seems chillier than before, and when he opens his mouth, he can taste the smell of dust and paper in a way he never has before. 

“Oh _my.”_

Aziraphale is staring down at him. Despite himself, he shrinks away, curling in tighter on himself and resting his head atop the knot of his body. For a moment, he doesn’t move – just blinks wide, sky-blue eyes that flit over the length of Crowley’s form. Then, he shakes his head. When he starts to lean down, Crowley tenses. _He sees the flickering flames of a holy blade, arcing towards him–_

Aziraphale’s hand comes to rest atop his scales, just below his head. Gentle fingers, warm and smooth, stroke along the parts of his back that Aziraphale can reach. It’s _nice._ Crowley relaxes into the touch, slowly, _slowly_ beginning to uncoil, exposing more of himself to the lights overhead.

“My dear, you’re _beautiful.”_

  


Crowley ducks his head shyly, tucking his head under another part of his coiled body. There is a brief rustling and he can feel the subtle tremor that shakes through the floor beneath him. When he pokes his head out from under his scales, he is surprised to see Aziraphale sitting in front of him, reaching a hand out in his direction. 

Crowley looks at it, pulling his head out from under himself and tilting it to one side, slinking ever so slightly closer. Aziraphale watches him with a patient smile, waiting. It takes a second for Crowley to realize what for. 

He creeps closer, hesitating for just a second before steeling himself and pulling himself up atop Aziraphale’s open palm. Despite the feeling of scales over his skin, he doesn’t pull away. His smile doesn’t even falter. When Crowley lets his weight sink against Aziraphale’s hand, lets himself be supported in full, Aziraphale pulls him carefully into his lap. 

Crowley melts into the heat of his body, settling in against his chest, letting his head fall against his shoulder. Aziraphale lets him. Encourages him, even, with soft coos and even softer touches. Crowley curls around one of his hands, squeezing just enough to hold on, while the other trails in rhythmic strokes down his back. With each pass, front to back, front to back, a little bit more tension leaks from his scales, seeping out to dissipate in the golden light of the evening. It’s a tension that runs deep, something he’s been holding inside himself for longer, likely, than he’s been aware of it. One that has roiled in a black cloud in the deepest parts of him, seeping through his blood and marrow, poisoning his consciousness for an eternity. 

The thought creeps up on him, and maybe it should be alarming but really it floats into his mind, settling like a bird on a wire. He thinks that this is _nice._ Being held in this way. Being able to curl himself around and against Aziraphale so thoroughly, slotting against him in a way that lets him feel the angel’s heartbeat through every inch of him. 

He could, maybe, after some time (quite a bit of time) begin to sort of, well. Get used to this.

There are still a number of downsides to being a snake – a glorified length of string with scales, really – not the least of which is the lack of opposable thumbs. For one, he can’t kiss Aziraphale as a snake. Can’t feel the way his lips slot perfectly against his own. It’s that memory that Crowley keeps in his mind – The taste of Aziraphale’s smile. The feeling of his fingers weaving through Crowley’s hair – when he visualizes arms and legs and skin.

A moment later, he’s blinking with eyes that are once again on the same level as Aziraphale’s.

“Hello again,” Aziraphale says softly, not missing a beat. His arm wraps around Crowley’s waist, holding him tight on his lap so they’re chest to chest. The fingers of his other hand play through Crowley’s hair and he melts into the feeling.

“Miss me?” Crowley asks, mouthing at Aziraphale’s neck, just under the line of his jaw. Aziraphale hums and presses a kiss to his temple.

“I couldn’t possibly have, my dear,” he says, and when Crowley fixes him with a curious look, his smile only grows. “You didn’t go anywhere.”

Crowley grins. For the first time in a long time, the tears beginning to pool against his bottom eyelids don’t sting.

“Thanks to you,” he says. He can feel the way his grin twists into a smirk, curling one end of his mouth. “Y’know, when I was all  _ slithery,  _ I was thinking about the things that I wouldn’t be able to do as a snake.”

“Oh?” A familiar spark of interest lights Aziraphale’s eyes. “Such as?”

Crowley’s eyebrows wiggle, and between his still-watery eyes and his inability to fully dispel the giddiness from his expression, he knows he  _ must _ look ridiculous. He can’t really bring himself to care.

“Such as  _ this,”  _ he says. He holds Aziraphale’s face between his hands and kisses him.

Aziraphale is still smiling, even as he returns the kiss, and  _ heaven.  _ It’s a feeling Crowley will never grow tired of, even after another six thousand years, and he can’t help but kiss him again. And again and  _ again. _

He squirms –  _ slithers –  _ impossibly closer on Aziraphale’s lap, pressing into his chest, determined to eliminate the last hint of negative space between them.

The kisses leave Aziraphale’s lips, and he blinks blue eyes – less like a clear sky, more like the beginnings of a storm – up into Crowley’s gold. There’s a question there, but before it can make itself heard, Crowley renews his efforts – this time against the skin of Aziraphale’s neck.

“Oh!” Aziraphale huffs when Crowley nips at the edge of his jawline. He sounds surprised, but not unhappy, and so Crowley does it again. The third time, he holds on longer with his teeth, sucking briefly at the spot. When he pulls away, he licks over the little, bruise-red mark, satisfaction creeping through his veins at the sight of it.

“Was there-” Aziraphale starts, a bit breathlessly, and Crowley looks up at the sound of his voice. “Was there anything  _ else _ you were thinking of while you were a snake? Perhaps… the things you might want to do with your hands?” 

Crowley’s heart does a flip. Aziraphale is watching him expectantly, unmoving. The touch of his hands, with their fluttering fingers, is light against Crowley’s waist. He could break easily from it, could pull away. If he wanted.

He swallows.

“Want me to show you?” His voice comes out lower than he’d expected, with a rasp to it – he can’t tell if that’s from the nervousness or the anticipation, but he doesn’t give it much thought. His own conflicting emotions take a backseat to the way Aziraphale swallows, the motion of it visible along the smooth column of his throat. To the shudder wracking his body that Crowley is close enough to feel along his own. 

Eyes blown wide, he nods, head bobbing like it’s on a spring. 

Crowley smiles. His heart is pounding behind his ribcage, beating out an anxious rhythm as it pumps excitement through his veins. With a surge of boldness, he presses a hand into the middle of Aziraphale’s chest and leans in closer,  _ closer.  _ Aziraphale follows easily, tipping further and further until he is sprawled on his back against the rug on the floor beneath them. Crowley straddles his thighs, drinking in the sight of him with, chest full of impossible warmth.  _ Beautiful.  _

“You’re beautiful.”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes with a flickering smile. His hand reaches to caress Crowley’s cheek.

“‘S this alright?” Crowley asks, catching the hand against his skin and holding it to his lips instead. Below him, Aziraphale nods again. “Tell me what you want, angel.”

“You,” Aziraphale says. “Just…  _ you.” _

A laugh bubbles up out of Crowley’s lungs and he kisses Aziraphale’s palm before winding their fingers together and leaning in to kiss him properly instead. His forehead remains attached securely to Aziraphale’s, even when he breaks the kiss to say, “I’ve never…” His voice is a near-whisper, trembling even through his smile. 

“Me neither,” Aziraphale says, equally hushed. His fingers slip under the hem of Crowley’s sweater, dancing against bare skin, and Crowley’s breath catches. He breaks his hold on Aziraphale’s hand to instead grab at his sweater, wiggling as he pulls it over his head. Almost before it hits the ground, he’s redirecting his attention to Aziraphale, fingers slipping buttons through holes with coordination that is surprising considering the way he can feel adrenaline surging through his hands.

Aziraphale starts to move, to pull at the sleeves still clinging to his arms, but he doesn’t get far. As soon as his chest is laid bare, Crowley is trailing teeth and tongue down the planes of his skin, only stopping just above his waistband to suck another mark into the softness of his stomach. He relishes in the little huff of breath that falls from Aziraphale’s lips, in the fingers that brush with the barest pressure through his hair.

It’s only when – after another nip catches him by surprise – Aziraphale’s leg jerks, catching him at a perfect angle, that Crowley becomes aware of the hardness between his own legs.

_ “Fuck,”  _ he gasps. He only just keeps his arms from giving out and sending him crashing into Aziraphale. “Angel.”

For a second, there is silence. Neither of them moves. And then, Crowley feels that same pressure against his groin – insistent, this time. Deliberate. 

With a smirk, he presses his palm against the bulge in Aziraphale’s pants, getting his revenge in the form of the little  _ “Oh!”  _ that is gasped just above him. Impatiently, his hands slip up to Aziraphale’s fly, but before he can so much as find the button, Aziraphale breathes, “Wait.”

Crowley snatches his hands back like they’ve been splashed with holy water, sitting back and holding them palms-out just in front of his chest. 

“Nothing’s wrong,” Aziraphale rushes with a shake of his head against the floor before Crowley can so much as open his mouth. 

He bites down on his lip instead, watching Aziraphale with a trained expression that he’s sure still doesn’t fully hide his concern. Both of Azirapahle’s hands slip up to stroke slowly, carefully, at Crowley’s jean-clad thighs. He relaxes into the touch with a hum, dropping his arms to his sides.

“Would you like to move this off the floor?” Aziraphale asks with a sheepish smile that manifests double as a rose-gold blush high on the apples of his cheeks. “I think this may be our last chance to do so.”

A pleased heat seeps up Crowley’s neck and into his ears, just touching the corner of his lopsided grin.

“I think I’m comfortable right here,” he purrs, dipping close to nose against the shell of Aziraphale’s ear, delighted by the way he hears his angel’s breath hitch. He presses a kiss against Aziraphale’s cheek, expression softening as he continues, “But, if you’d like to move– If you’re not comfortable.”

“No!” Aziraphale says quickly enough to startle a snort out of Crowley. “No, I’m– I’m alright here. I…”

“Angel,” Crowley prods gently at his hesitation. “Are you–?”

“Well, It maybe  _ would _ be nice to have a pillow. A blanket, perhaps, or– or something soft, at least.”

“Of course,” Crowley says, smiling. 

_Anything._ _Anything for you._ And, with a snap of his fingers, they’re there – a nest of silky soft, thick, fleece blankets and a plush throw pillow. A lavish throne. Aziraphale pulls the pillow under his head and settles back against the blankets

“Better?” Crowley asks against his lips. Aziraphale smiles, stroking a hand through the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck and pulling him into a proper kiss.

“Much.”

“Good. Now, where was I?”

Aziraphale opens his mouth, presumably with a snarky comeback already in mind  _ (Bastard.  _ Crowley loves him  _ so much.) _ but it fades into a breathy moan when Crowley starts to work a bruise into his collarbone with his tongue. He undoes Aziraphale’s pants with reckless efficiency, returning to the task at hand as though he’d never been interrupted at all. His patience runs out after he gets them pulled down over Aziraphale’s hips and, with little more than a frown and a scrunching of his eyebrows, wills them away entirely. 

Laid bare before him, Aziraphale is a  _ sight. _ More than usual, Crowley finds himself unable to pull his gaze away. He’s  _ allowed _ this, now – allowed to drink his fill of Aziraphale’s body, a marble masterpiece all his own – and a thrill streaks down his spine when he thinks it. Every part of him is beautiful, all of his curves and soft places, but Crowley can’t help but let his eyes linger between his legs, at the way his cock curves out from his body, hard and eager.  _ He  _ did that. 

Aziraphale  _ wants _ him.

A tug at his own fly brings Crowley’s mind back down from his cloud of self-satisfaction and he blinks up at Aziraphale, whose voice is amused but still insistent when he says, “You too.”

“Right,” Crowley agrees. After a moment’s hesitation, he begrudgingly gives up his position straddling Aziraphale’s legs and lays out across the floor next to him instead in order to awkwardly wiggle free of his jeans. As soon as he kicks them off his ankles, officially rendering himself fully bare, he crouches on his knees once again and hovers just over Aziraphale, who is watching him with an intensity that Crowley can’t help but preen under. He can feel the heat of the pleased blush that’s burning through the tips of his ears, and this close, he thinks Aziraphale probably can too.

“Tell me what to do,” he says, voice a low rumble in his chest as he holds Aziraphale’s eyes steady. “What do you want, angel?”

“Crowley, I–”

“Please,” Crowley interrupts, and his voice is ragged. He swallows down his sandpaper tongue and presses on. “I just want  _ you.  _ Let me make you feel good. Aziraphale–”

“I want you inside me,” Aziraphale rushes, all in one breath. His chest heaves like he’s catching his breath and his eyes are almost all pupil, with nothing more than an azure halo making them glow.

Crowley nods eagerly. He doesn’t say anything for fear of choking on the words, just presses a kiss to Aziraphale’s lips and wastes no time getting into place. Gentle hands spread Aziraphale’s legs and he lets himself be moved, be positioned, as Crowley finds a comfortable place between his thighs.

“Alright?” he murmurs. “Comfy?”

Aziraphale nods and whatever further reassurances he might have been planning to say dissolve into a sharp gasp when Crowley trails just the tip of a slick finger over the sensitive skin of his entrance. Aziraphale blinks down at him.

“Where did you–?”

“Just a teeny, tiny little miracle,” Crowley says, holding up his lube-greased fingers.

“Ah. Convenient,” Aziraphale says with a grin. 

He settles his head back against his pillow, the length of him stretched luxuriously across his bed of blankets, the picture of hedonism. Still, Crowley hesitates.

“Ready?” he asks, unblinking eyes flickering across Aziraphale’s expression like it’s a particularly tricky bit of rhetoric – one that requires no less than his full attention.

“Yes.” Aziraphale’s eyes find his, and something he sees on Crowley’s face makes him soften. “My dear, I don’t know that I’ve ever been  _ more _ ready for anything. I’m all yours.”

“Yeah,” Crowley says, choking on the word. He clears his throat, willing away that pesky prickling at the corners of his eyes, and tries again. “Well. That’s alright, then.” 

He doesn’t say anything else, just returns to stroking his finger across Aziraphale’s entrance. He can feel the shudder that wracks Aziraphale’s body as an echo against his own when he starts to press inside gently,  _ so  _ gently. 

The room fades away to nothing but their exchanging of breaths, the points of contact between them, the heat of their bodies, as Aziraphale opens on Crowley’s fingers – one, then two, then three – with the utmost care. A whimper squeaks its way through his lips when the fingers retreat, one that is swallowed immediately by Crowley’s tongue. He doesn’t stay empty for long. 

In a handful of breaths, Crowley’s cock takes the place of his fingers, finding its place slowly, always with Aziraphale’s comfort in mind.  _ Always. _ He goes as far as he can go and then stops, waiting with trembling thighs and fists clenched against the floor, until Aziraphale reaches for him, pulls him in. 

Their lips meet in a rhythm not at all like the one at which Aziraphale’s hips begin to twitch. Crowley lets him set the pace, follows along for the ride when Aziraphale’s legs squeeze at his sides, encircling him in warmth and heat and  _ love.  _ Love so loud he doesn’t need to be an angel to feel it. It’s in every thrust of their hips coming together, in every light scrape of Aziraphale’s nails down the length of his back, in the breaths that puff against each other’s mouths between sloppy kisses. (Whispers of  _ I love you,  _ of  _ Don’t let go.  _ Of  _ I won’t. Not ever.) _

Aziraphale’s hips stutter and Crowley drinks in the way his name falls from Aziraphale’s lips. He can’t hear himself – he’s sure he’s saying something, but he doesn’t even know what, and doesn’t care. He’s drowning in the sound, the scent, the feel, of Aziraphale. His angel. He feels himself wrap a hand around Aziraphale’s cock, stroking with movements that feel like they’re coming from outside himself. That’s all it takes, and Aziraphale is coming over his hand, spilling hot across both of him.

Crowley follows behind just a beat later with a cry of Aziraphale’s name, stars dancing in vivid technicolor behind his eyelids.

He feels himself collapse on noodling limbs, burying his face the soft warmth of Aziraphale’s shoulder and mouthing purposelessly at the salt of his skin. Fingers brush through his hair, and he leans into the feeling, chasing it until he’s craned his neck back far enough to come face to face with Aziraphale, pulled in by the inescapable wave of his ocean-blue eyes.

“I love you,” he breathes, still riding the high of what they’d just done, a pleasant buzz radiating out from his skull and thrumming along the back of his neck.  _ “Heaven,  _ angel. I love you so damn much– I…”

He stops and sucks in a breath, throat seizing around all the things he can’t say, all the things that are impossible to express. His silver tongue has never found words lacking before, but now they aren’t enough. They never could be.

“I know,” Aziraphale says. His mouth slots perfectly against Crowley’s, a gentle pressure that is just as  _ right _ as the first time. Whether it’s his voice, or his touch, or something, well…  _ ineffable,  _ Crowley doesn’t know. But he does know it’s true. 

Aziraphale wipes them clean with a wave of his hand and pulls one of his new blankets over them, arm draped over Crowley’s middle. Crowley smiles, snuggling closer, both arms tucked comfortably up against Aziraphale’s chest. He’s still smiling when, slotted like a puzzle piece against Aziraphale’s side and stretched across the smooth softness of a nest of green blankets, he falls into a dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> art by [Eriathalia](https://eriathalia.tumblr.com)!! ♥


	6. Epilogue

The garden is thriving.

Crowley stands in front of the full length bay windows and looks out at the little section of yard splotched with colorful herbs and flowers in all shapes and sizes. Beyond that, visible at the very edge of the horizon, is the smallest sliver of sparkling sea. There is a still-warm mug of coffee in his hands and, although he’s changed into a fresh cloud-gray cashmere sweater, his jeans are still stained with chlorophyll.

The kettle begins to whistle from somewhere behind him, steam bubbling up from a rumble into a steady, single-note song. He turns from the window and makes his way back into the kitchen, setting down his own mug on the table in order to remove the kettle from the stove. A minute later, he’s pouring it over a tea strainer in a second mug. He’s still standing at the counter a couple minutes later, watching the seeping of the leaves into the water, when Aziraphale enters the room.

Crowley tosses the strainer ball into the sink to worry about later, and turns around, holding out the fresh mug of tea. 

“Morning, angel,” he chirps.

“Oh, thank you,” Aziraphale says, expression bright in a way that Crowley still finds miraculous so quickly after waking. He leans in to peck a quick kiss against Crowley’s lips as he takes the mug from his hands, and Crowley meets him halfway. “Good morning, my love.”

“Least I could do,” Crowley shrugs, although his grin only grows. He is, after all, partly to be blamed for Aziraphale’s late night and subsequent late morning. Most nights, although he shares a bed with Crowley, he still doesn’t often sleep. But sometimes, after particularly exerting himself, he really needs it.

“Are you going out to the garden?” Aziraphale asks.

“Already been,” Crowley hums.

“Oh?” Aziraphale wrinkles his nose. “What time _is_ it?” 

“Not noon yet. Are you going to do some reading?”

“I’d planned to. I’ve still got that latest batch of books we just brought over from the shop.” Aziraphale takes a long sip of his tea, humming appreciatively at the taste. “Then I was thinking we might go back to that brunch place we tried last week? I’ve been in quite a mood for their quiche.”

Crowley presses a kiss against the top of his head.

“Sure thing, angel,” he says. “Whatever you say.” 

Aziraphale wanders back into the living room and Crowley finishes off his coffee, setting the mug in the sink next to the strainer before following. He finds Aziraphale sitting on the couch, mug still steaming on the end table next to him and a book already open in his hands. He glances up to smile when Crowley walks in and gestures for the cushion next to him.

Crowley takes a seat.

The sun is shining bright through the windows, spilling over the cream-colored carpet and the white upholstery, warm and pleasant. Aziraphale’s vanilla scent next to him mingles with a hint of the sea breeze, something that’s become a part of him now. A part of both of them, likely.

The brunch place doesn’t close until three. Crowley glances at the clock on the wall that would never dream of being slow, and thinks, _We have time._

He rolls his shoulders and, a moment later, he’s slithering up into Aziraphale’s lap, black scales absorbing the dual heat from both the sun and his angel. He sighs his contentment as Aziraphale’s hands stroke over the length of his body.

He’s home.


End file.
